■■PMI^^^ 


Columbia  iHnibergitp 
in  tlje  Citp  of  iSeto  gorfe 


LIBRARY 


GIVEN    BY 


GIFT  OK 
H.  W.  WILSON! 


^t) 


THE  FLAME 
THAT  IS  FRANCE 


This  book^  under  its  French  title.  La 
Flamme  au  Poing,  was  awarded  tlie  Gon- 
court  Prize  in  Paris  for  the  year  1917. 


THE  FLAME 
THAT  IS  FRANCE 

BY 

HENRY  MALHERBE 


TRANSLATED  BY  V.   W.   B, 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1918 


GIFT  OF 

H.  W.  WILSON 

liAR  2  2  1929 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Published,  August,  1918 


TO  MY  VERY  DEAR 
RENE   DELANGE 

WHOSE  LIFE  HAS  BEEN  FOR  MB 
A  LONG  ACT  OF  FRIENDSHIP 


CONTENTS 

THREE  DIALOGUES 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I        MExMORY 10 

II     Love 17 

III     Death 29 


MEMORY 

IV  Portraits  and  Images 

V  The  Burning  Gaze    . 

VI  The   Lazar-House 

VII  Moments  of  Storm     . 

VIII  A  Bombardment    . 

IX  The  Hounds  of  Steel 


45 

48 
59 
67 
81 
87 


LOVE 

X     Our  Friend  Music      ....  97 

XI     Transparent   Souls    ....  107 

XII     In  the  Ruins  of  the  Abbey     .  110 

XIII  At  Daybreak 116 

XIV  Gleams  in  the  Shadow     .      .      .  121 


CONTENTS 
DEATH 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV     Flashes  of  the  Sword     .      .      .    129 

XVI     A  Meuse  Nocturne    ....    141 

XVII     The      Skeleton      Before      the 

Trench 149 

XVIII     A  Descent  Into  Hell     .      .      .    156 

XIX     The  Slave  of  Minos  .      .      .      .171 


THREE  DIALOGUES 


THE  FLAME  THAT 
IS  FRANCE 

THREE  DIALOGUES 

IT  is  now  fifty-five  days  since  we  took  up 
our  position  in  this  shattered  wood, 
stripped  bare  by  steel  and  flame.  The  vio- 
lence of  the  battle,  far  from  abating,  grows 
ever  fiercer  and  more  desperate.  Our  sensi- 
bilities, racked  by  the  horror  and  distress  of 
it,  fretted  by  enthusiasm  and  hatred,  have 
gone  mad,  reined  in  as  they  are,  trembling, 
rebellious. 

They  have   often   spoken   of  relieving  us. 

Colonel   D has    to   hold   us    back.     He 

knows   our  rage  of  destruction,  the  vehem- 
ence of  our  instinct  of  self-defense,   of  re- 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

venge.   .   .   .   And    our    commandant,    Major 

H ,   unceasingly   holds   out   hope   to   us, 

drives  away  the  bitterness  that  invades  us. 
But  those  that  remain  have  haggard  faces, 
scorched,  pitiful  to  look  upon.  Fatigue 
makes  them  feverish  and  dry.  They  are  the 
irreducible  slaves  of  a  tragic  cause,  of  which 
they  obscurely  feel  the  urgency  and  the 
grandeur. 

It  is  a  strange  landscape  that  hes  before 
us,  scarred  and  mounded.  The  little  valley 
where  we  are  has  an  indescribable  air  of 
something  worn-out,  artificial,  unreal.  A 
battlefield  of  today !  It  suggests  a  labora- 
tory that  is  occupied  by  some  ferocious  and 
sinister  kind  of  scientists  and  encumbered 
with  chemical  apparatus  and  thunderous 
machines.  .  .  .  Pharmaceutical  odors  hang 
about  the  amputated  trees,  creep  over  the 
soil  which  the  fiery  hail  has  blackened.  Dur- 
ing the  whole  afternoon  the  enemy  has  been 
sending  us  tear-shells  that  burst  with  a  sound 
4 


THREE  DIALOGUES 

like  clattering  tinware,  spreading  out  their 
veils  of  mephitic  mist,  discharging  their 
sharp,  insinuating  odors  of  mustard,  sandal- 
wood, and  incense. 

Another  evening  has  arrived,  clad  in  a  mist 
mottled  with  countless  spots  of  light,  each 
accompanied  by  a  deafening  explosion.  It  is 
my  turn  to  stand  guard,  this  night  through, 
at  headquarters.  A  few  rays,  thin  and  blu- 
ish like  swords,  pass  between  the  roughly 
joined  planks  of  the  door  of  my  shelter. 

One  grows  accustomed  to  these  feverish, 
lonely  vigils.  Even  by  day  we  rarely  speak 
to  one  another.  Amid  these  turbulent 
throngs  we  at  the  same  time  dread  being 
separated  and  keep  to  ourselves.  And  the 
love  of  life  and  friendship  persists  so 
strongly  in  the  burning  solitude  that  we 
come  to  endow  all  things  with  existence,  the 
disconsolate  and  mutilated  trees,  the  roads 
that  mount  up  and  lose  themselves  in  the  cra- 
ters, the  lacerated  earth,  our  own  over- 
5 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

heated  weapons  and  the  guns  that  growl  and 
go  through  the  same  movements  over  and 
over,  like  black  howling  dervishes.  How- 
many  times  I  have  caught  our  men  with 
grave  tenderness  addressing  their  rifles,  their 
bayonets,  their  helmets,  their  cannon,  the 
smooth,  heavy  shells  which  they  were  about 
to  send  off! 

Captain    A and    Lieutenant    L 

just    now    proposed    to    relieve    me    of    my 

watch.     I    refused    to    go.     L insisted, 

very  affectionately: 

"  You  must  think  of  yourself.  You  are 
verj^  tired." 

It  is  true, —  I  feel  faint.  I  light  a  candle 
that  shrivels  as  if  in  a  fury  to  consume  it- 
self. .  .  .  There  comes  a  mysterious  breath, 
the  door  trembles,  I  feel  the  presence  of  some- 
one.  .   .   . 

Three  beings  had  come  to  make  me  a  visit. 
They  seemed  very  tall ;  nevertheless,  they 
found  room  in  this  low,  narrow  shelter.  I 
6 


THREE  DL\LOGUES 

felt,  I  divined  these  presences  rather  than 
actuall}^  distinguished  them. 

How  can  I  repeat  to  you  the  sweet,  pro- 
found colloquies  that  have  passed  between 
us?  Here  we  are  accustomed  only  to  a  lan- 
guage that  is  harsh  and  abrupt.  The  mem- 
ory of  grave  and  musical  words,  of  expres- 
sions that  are  true  and  fine,  deserts  me.  My 
heart  is  hardened.  I  cannot  describe  these 
apparitions,  diaphanous  yet  actual,  incor- 
poreal yet  visible,  diffused  yet  possessing  the 
breath  of  life.  I  can  do  no  more  than  faith- 
fully transcribe  their  discourse,  made  up  of 
music,  of  mystery,  of  perfume  and  of  magic. 

But  since  the  beginning  of  the  war  we  have 
rubbed  shoulders  with  so  many  strange  men 
that  this  encounter  has  not  surprised  me. 

Is  it  my  weariness  that  has  raised  these 
beings  up  before  me,  these  beings  which  have 
the  fire  and  the  color  of  life, —  of  something 
other,  something  greater  than  life? 

For  a  long  time  now  we  have  been  placed 
7 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

upon  those  frontiers  of  humanity  from  which 
it  is  only  a  step  to  the  other  side.  There 
everything  is  stripped  bare.  Ideas,  reduced 
and  broken  up,  retain  a  crude,  blinding  light, 
an  indescribable  brilliance  like  that  of  a  crys- 
tal inflamed  by  the  setting  sun. 

In  all  truth,  I  have  little  taste  for  conver- 
sations with  symbolic  personages.  It  suits 
me  better  to  talk  with  almost  any  poor  man, 
however  miserable,  to  decipher  an  actual  face 
that  life  has  humbled,  that  passion  has  worn 
and  suffering  scarred. 

But  memory,  love  and  death  have  addressed 
me  with  voices  of  entreaty,  lowly  and  appeal- 
ing. Their  little  philosophy  struck  me  as 
rather  commonplace,  rather  easy-going,  and 
their  heroism  as  slightly  conventional.  By 
an  artifice  for  which  my  readers  might  be 
grateful  I  could  have  named  them  Rene, 
Helene  and  Fran9oise.  But  I  prefer  to  be 
more  candid.  Besides,  I  think  the  truth  is 
more  commanding  and  more  accessible  in  the 
8 


THREE  DIALOGUES 

form  of  an  idea  than  of  a  personage.  .  .  . 

In  this  collapse  of  all  living  things,  in  this 
besetting  lust  of  destruction  to  which  all  who 
surround  us  seem  to  be  consecrated,  we  nat- 
urally endow  with  less  vital  force  the  organ- 
ism that  is  so  swiftly  shattered  than  the 
thought  which  endures. 

What  need  have  I  to  ask  excuses?  Mem- 
ory, love  and  death  have  come,  this  night,  to 
me.  I  have  seen  them,  I  tell  you,  in  a  dis- 
turbing incarnation.  And  as  we  no  longer 
fear  anything  and  no  one  can  astonish  us  for 
long,  I  have  talked  with  them  as  with  new 
comrades  of  the  battlefield.  Well  I  knew, 
when  I  refused  to  quit  my  post,  that  some- 
thing singular  and  extraordinary  was  going 
to  happen  to  me,  that  the  very  depths  of  my 
soul  were  to  be  stirred,  that  I  was  to  find  my- 
self face  to  face,  in  this  night  of  solitude, 
with  the  unknown  beings  that  rule  over  my 
destiny. 


9 


MEMORY 

HE  is  a  tall  joung  man  very  like  my 
brother  and  a  certain  friend.  His 
features  are  irregular  and  sad,  his  hair  light. 
His  look  reminds  me  of  my  mother's,  whose 
eyes  are  so  sorrowful.  His  gracious,  airy 
presence  blends  with  the  half-obscurity  of  a 
corner  of  the  shelter.  He  speaks  in  a  pene- 
trating voice,  his  blue  lips  trembling. 

"  I  have  come  to  you  tonight  because,  in 
the  hardships  of  your  present  life,  you  forget 
those  who  are  dearest  to  you.  You  have 
spread  out  on  your  knees  the  pictures  of 
those  3^ou  love  and  for  all  the  strength  of 
your  heart  you  cannot  evoke  them  distinctly. 
In  the  presence  of  death,  we  forget  those 
who  help  us  to  live." 

"  You  are  mistaken.  They  are  always  in 
my  memory." 

10 


MEMORY 

'■'  You  believe  that,  in  response  to  your 
eager  longings,  they  come  to  you  as  they 
really  are?  They  are  better  or  worse  than 
you  imagine.  Permit  me  to  free  them  from 
the  tarnish  that  has  gathered  over  them ;  let 
me  give  these  darkened  images  a  few  touches 
of  fresh  color,  a  few  lines  to  strengthen  the 
blurred  silhouettes.  .  .  .  You  see,  they  are 
enveloped  in  the  mist  of  absence.  For  a  few 
moments,  you  can  live  once  more  in  their 
presence." 

"  But  are  they  possessed  by  the  same  nos- 
talgia? Do  they  think  of  us  with  the  same 
love?" 

*•  If  you  could  see  their  reddened  eyes.  .  .  . 
When  you  go,  we  do  not  know  how  much  you 
mean  to  us.  .  .  .  We  never  quite  grow  used 
to  your  disappearance.  .  .  .  Your  sorrows 
are  ours ;  by  some  strange  magnetism,  they 
reach  even  us.  And  you  have  the  delirium 
of  action  that  is  lacking  to  us." 

"  Do  you  desire  so  much,  then,  to  have  us 
11 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

back  among  you?  Are  you  not  a  little  afraid 
to  meet  us  again  with  everything  that  is  vio- 
lent in  us  exposed,  our  passions  out  of  hand? 
Have  not  our  places  been  taken?  Equilib- 
rium is  already  restored.  We  shall  disturb 
it  perhaps.  Ah,  notoriously  ambiguous  are 
the  emotions  which  our  sacrifices,  our  losses 
provoke.  .  .  ." 

"  Be  still ;  do  not  blaspheme.  You  do  not 
hear  the  prayers  of  your  people,  their  cries 
of  distress.  Think  of  those  who  have  not 
been  able  to  endure  the  ordeal  and  whose 
hearts  have  broken  with  anguish,  think  of 
those  who  no  longer  believe  in  humanity,  who 
no  longer  wish  to  see  anything  and  anticipate 
nothing !  " 

"But  the  rest?  We  have  abandoned 
everything  we  own,  everything  we  enjoy,  at 
the  crossroads  of  the  world.  All  who  pass  by 
will  not  respect  these  things.  It  is  in  their 
hands  to  forget  us  and  undo  us.  Our  per- 
sonalities have  been  torn  apart.  How  can 
12 


MEMORY 

we  find  ourselves  again  in  this  cataclysm? 
We  are  the  soil  itself  in  movement,  numerous, 
plentiful  as  the  trees  of  the  forest  beaten  by 
the  storm.  We  are  no  more  to  be  distin- 
guished than  the  tangled  branches  of  the 
thicket,  of  the  bush,  of  the  jungle." 

"  I  am  less  sorry  for  you  than  for  your 
mothers,  your  children,  your  friends.  They 
were  united  about  your  soul  as  about  a  lamp. 
It  was  your  air  they  breathed  and  your  activ- 
ity nourished  them.  They  cannot  fill  the 
void  that  you  have  left  in  them.  It  is  a 
corner  deep  in  shadow  against  which  they 
forever  fling  themselves  as  against  a  wall  that 
shuts  off  the  horizon  and  confounds  their 
eyes." 

"  That  does  not  prevent  them  from  resum- 
ing the  fragrant  course  of  their  existence, 
welcoming  its  joys,  opening  themselves  to  the 
sweetness  and  harmony  of  life." 

"  But  you,  you  have  a  share  in  this  mag- 
nificent adventure.  You  intoxicate  yourself 
13 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

with  the  unrivalled  glory  of  it.  Ah !  these 
glorious  armies  made  up  of  such  multifari- 
ous peoples,  such  variegated  colors !  You 
knead  the  dough  from  which  the  new  world 
will  arise.  And  they  remain  in  their  narrow 
paths  whither  nothing  reaches  them  but  the 
muffled  echo  of  your  noble  enterprises.  For 
two  whole  years  3^ou  have  dwelt  in  the  open 
air,  in  communion  with  the  earth  which  you 
defend." 

"  Oh,  my  poor  little  blue  room,  my  books 
so  full  of  melancholy  and  friendship,  my  little 
terrace  facing  the  misty  garden.   .   .   ." 

"  You  inhabit  a  reality  so  intense  that  you 
forget  the  splendor  of  these  fruitful  and  de- 
structive deeds  of  yours." 

"  Who  will  realize  the  grandeur  of  our  sac- 
rifice, the  bitterness  that  overtakes  us  after 
fierce  engagements,  our  religion  of  duty?  " 

"  I  draw  flattering  portraits  of  you." 

*'  When  we  no  longer  exist,  who  will  tell 
14? 


MEMORY 

them  of  the  beauty  that  has  died  with  us  ?  " 
"  They  have  seen  you  in  your  youth  and 
strength.  They  will  always  see  you  so. 
Those  bright  and  happy  images  will  never 
leave  their  eyes.  What  man  would  not  wish 
at  his  death  to  leave  behind  such  memories? 
They  will  never  be  able  to  convince  them- 
selves that  you  will  not  return  again.  They 
will  start  up  at  every  sound  of  a  key  in  the 
lock,  at  every  footfall  on  the  path.  You 
will  not  die  in  their  hearts.  The  fire  that 
gives  you  life  will  be  tended.  It  will  spring 
up  in  the  air  they  breathe  and  the  place  that 
knows  them.  Do  not  think  that  only  the 
malingerers,  the  cowards,  the  aged,  and 
those  who  have  special  protection  are  going 
to  survive  the  war.  You  will  live  again  in 
all  those  you  have  left,  and  the  beauty  that 
consumes  you  will  find  its  way  even  into  those 
who  do  not  seem  to  you  worthy.  Have  confi- 
dence in  me." 

15 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

"  Let  them  ever  bear  in  mind,  then,  that 
we  sliall  be  watching  them,  judging  them, 
holding  them  responsible." 

There  is  a  sudden  crash,  a  crepitation.  I 
brush  by  my  visitors  and  dash  out.  A  maga- 
zine of  many-colored  rockets  has  exploded  at 
our  left.  They  shoot  through  the  sombre  air 
with  their  soft,  luminous  curves  like  glitter- 
ing birds  of  the  Antilles.  Their  sparkling, 
ga^^ly  radiant  plumes  are  scattered  hither 
and  thither  and  extinguished  like  satisfied 
desires.  Opposite,  far  away,  the  gleams  of 
a  great  fire  besplash  with  gold  the  nocturnal 
sky.  The  detonations  grow  less  frequent  and 
seem  less  violent.  A  fresh  and  gentle  fra- 
grance like  that  of  the  hawthorn  steals  forth, 
as  if  in  compassion,  brushes  through  the  mist 
and  the  chemical  odors  and  brings  me,  in  this 
evil  abode  of  tragedy  and  weariness,  a  glad, 
enchanting  surprise. 


16 


n 


LOVE 

1  RETURN  to  headquarters.  A  mysteri- 
ous tranquillity  takes  hold  of  me,  re- 
stores me.  Our  work  is  all  ready  for  the 
morrow.  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch 
and  await  new  orders.  A  sort  of  warmth 
spreads  over  my  solitude.  And  I  relapse 
once  more  into  revery. 

I  turn  my  head  to  one  side.  The  slender 
young  man  is  still  there.  I  observe  two 
women,  one  at  his  either  hand.  One  of  them 
detaches  herself  from  the  mysterious  group. 
She  seems  to  come  toward  me.  She  envelops 
me  with  her  heady,  impalpable  presence. 

How  exquisite  she  is  in  her  shadowy  frock 
of  the  latest  mode  !  Her  flushed,  boyish  face 
agitates  me  just  like  those  I  have  loved.  She 
17 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

sighs,  unconstrained  but  blushing  a  little,  not 
knowing  how  to  begin  our  conversation. 
Taking  pity  on  her  confusion,  I  say  to  her: 

"  To  everything  that  is  worth  the  price  of 
suffering,  to  everything  for  which  we  strug- 
gle and  die,  we  give  a  woman's  face.  You 
are  the  dream  that  mounts  up  in  us,  bitter 
and  abrupt.  Our  ardor,  our  temerity,  our 
headstrong  sacrifice  are  impassioned  evi- 
dences of  love  and  of  our  endeavor  to  win 
your  tenderness,  your  recognition,  your 
pride.  Ah,  you  know  well  enough  what  it  is 
we  fear,  that  you  will  not  in  all  ways  prove 
worthy  of  our  renunciation.  Our  sufferings 
you  yourselves  must  merit." 

"  Do  you  not  feel  that  we  are  behind  you, 
like  the  long  glances  of  love.^  A  corner  of 
our  hearts,  the  best,  the  purest,  is  kept  for 
you." 

"  Oh,     jealousy     has     no     place     in     our 
thoughts.     That  is  a  mean  and  petty  senti- 
ment which  has  no  place  in  this  war." 
18 


LOVE 

"  We  cannot  have  the  perfection  of  jour 
austerity.  Since  you  are  inclined  to  medita- 
tion this  evening,  I  shall  try  to  descend  into 
the  depths  and  bring  to  the  light  the  motives 
and  reactions  of  the  feminine  soul  as  it  is. 
As  for  you,  you  have  gone  back  to  the  earth, 
to  the  stark  life  of  instinct,  purified  of  all 
alloy  of  artificiality,  to  the  ingenuousness  of 
the  animal.  That  simplicity  has  communi- 
cated itself  to  us  and  taken  all  the  stronger 
hold  upon  us  because  we  are  closer  to  nature. 
For  death  ravages  our  work  which  was  al- 
ready sad  enough.  The  war  unpeoples  this 
planet  which  we  have  been  charged  with  the 
task  of  enriching  with  men.  Today  a  som- 
bre and  breathless  ardor  to  recreate  pos- 
sesses us.  We  must  replace  those  who  have 
vanished.  I  have  none  too  many  workwomen 
to  fill  up  the  void.  It  is  in  this  way  you 
ought  to  interpret  the  excesses,  the  license  of 
these  captives  who  remain  without  masters, 
intoxicated  with  their  transitory  freedom. 
19 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Do  not  condemn  them  without  a  hearing. 
Their  submission  to  the  rigorous  and  im- 
penetrable commands  of  the  world  provokes 
these  impulses  that  seem  to  you  delinquen- 
cies." 

"  Ah  !  What  weighty  excuses  !  And  from 
you,  the  last  one  to  make  them !  Are  we  to 
think  then,  that  will,  dignity  of  feeling,  the 
conquest  of  insolent  instincts  are  to  be  for- 
ever alien  to  the  abodes  of  free  women?  " 

"Why  these  ill-natured  words?  Have 
you,  too,  then,  had  to  bear  the  news  of  a 
mistress's  inconstancy?  " 

"Perhaps.   .   .   ." 

"  Do  not  be  indignant.  It  is  certain  she 
is  in  tears  now.  Often  she  finds  your  image 
before  her  eyes.  She  bewails  her  ruined  love, 
her  squandered  destiny  and  that  thirst  to 
create  which  she  can  never  quench.  Again 
she  says  to  herself :  '  He  is  the  best  and 
greatest  of  men.'  Another,  sly  and  rough, 
has  come  prowling  about  her.  Faced  with 
20 


LOVE 

the  innumerable  deaths  of  this  war,  she  who 
was  made  to  give  life  has  felt  the  passion  to 
bring  forth  supplanting  duty  and  memory." 

"  Do  not  continue  this  specious  discourse. 
Know,  however  they  may  fail,  that  we  remain 
unblemished  and  strong.  No  longer  can  the 
triumphant  mechanism  of  our  muscles  suffer 
impairment  under  these  calamities.  We 
brave  the  heaviest  storms." 

"  Meanwhile,  the  greater  number  of  them 
soberly  keep  faith  with  you.  We  tremble 
unceasingly,  knowing  that  you  are  in  peril. 
You  are  the  cause  of  a  sombre  and  perpetual 
fear  that  holds  us  in  imperishable  bonds. 
And  you  fill  us  with  pride  in  the  very  hour 
of  our  distress." 

"  Go,  leave  us  to  our  inflexible  destiny,  our 
solitary  passion.  We  are  caught  up  in  a 
love  that  is  more  lasting,  more  sincere.  We 
give  ourselves  to  liberate  the  nations,  those 
splendid  prisoners,  the  oppressed  peoples,  for 
noble  ways  and  generous  ideas.  .  .  ." 
21 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

"  Yes,  with  us  you  might  grow  weak  and 
waste  yourselves.  Instead,  you  leave  us, 
with  our  desires  unappeased.  .  .  .  You 
bring  us  also  the  sorrow,  the  destruction 
that  is  yours.  To  love,  is  it  not  to  run  to 
meet  death,  is  it  not  to  perish?  " 

"  It  is  also  to  live  again." 

"  Egoists, —  you  are  that,  all  of  you,  at 
the  Front !  —  you  never  think  of  your  lost 
wives,  your  deluded  fiancees.  If  you  are 
killed,  how  shall  they  heal  their  irresolute 
and  forever  wounded  souls.''  Thrown  to  the 
earth,  prostrate  at  the  crossroads,  how,  with- 
out stability  and  without  a  guide,  shall  they 
again  take  up  their  rugged  paths  ?  " 

"  Ah,  but  you  just  now  told  me  that  their 
creative  frenzy  dominated  this  anguish  and 
drove  away  despair." 

"  But  we  are  not  all  like  that.  It  is  true 
of  those  who  lack  conscience  and  the  sense  of 
shame.   .   .   ." 

"  The  majority.  .   .  ." 
22 


LOVE 

"  No !  Our  menacing  instincts  are  dis- 
armed. They  are  lost  in  scruple  and  in  dis- 
cipline. They  change  themselves  into  senti- 
ment and  thought." 

"  Did  you  not  say  that  you  were  too  weak 
to  resist  the  winning  commands  of  nature?  " 

"  Possibly,  when  we  interpret  them  in  our 
own  way.  .  .  .  The  rest  of  us  cannot  so 
swiftly  trample  our  moral  beliefs  and  our 
habits  under  foot.  Come,  of  us  two,  I,  I  am 
the  more  faithful,  the  more  easily  intimi- 
dated.  .   .  ." 

"  Indeed.^  How  easy  to  charge  others 
with  the  ill-deeds  with  which  you  are  re- 
proached !  " 

"  Reflect  and  you  will  understand.  We 
used  to  have  your  tender  protection.  We 
reposed  in  your  love.  We  travelled,  hand 
in  hand,  the  difficult  roads  of  the  world. 
Existence  no  longer  frightened  us  and  the 
future  we  regarded  with  glad  eyes.  We  were 
accustomed    to    your    faults,    your    rough- 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

nesses,  and  you  cherished  our  capricious- 
ness.  We  took  pride  in  your  courage  and 
your  intelligence  and  you  found  us  exquis- 
ite.  .  .  ." 

"  What  are  you  leading  up  to?  " 

"  And  then  our  love  is  broken  apart !  Do 
you  imagine  we  can  form  new  ties  so  soon? 
It  takes  so  long,  it  is  so  complicated,  so  pain- 
ful to  learn  to  know,  to  admit  another  man." 

"  A  good  many  are  not  greatly  troubled 
by  that.   .   .   ." 

"  Strange  creature,  a  man !  And  a  woman 
also.  To  meet  an  unknown  being,  the  secrets 
of  whose  heredity  have  not  yet  been  revealed, 
to  begin  again,  before  one's  wound  has  been 
able  to  heal,  the  winning  artifices,  the  little 
deceits  of  love  —  that  is  beyond  my  strength, 
I  think.  No  longer  can  I  accept  that  irk- 
some task,  those  labors  without  hope.  .  .  . 
Besides,  what  assurance  will  a  second  choice 
bring  to  one  whom  a  hero  has  loved  and  who 
has  betrayed  him  in  his  absence?  How  can 
24 


LOVE 

one  hazard  that  new  experiment  in  passion, 
how  feel  anything  but  shame  in  those  clan- 
destine intimacies,  how  escape  the  torment- 
ing recollections  that  are  certain  to  rise  up 
at  every  turn  ?  " 

"  I  assure  jou  that  one  begins  those  things 
unconsciously  and  quite  casually  gets  oneself 
committed.  .   .   ." 

"  I  shall  not  listen  to  your  insinuations. 
You  have  said  that  we  must  deserve  your 
sufferings ;  I  reply  that  you  ought  to  marvel 
at  our  renunciations.  For  our  mission,  our 
very  nobility  constrains  us  to  a  creation  that 
nothing  can  interrupt.  We  are  obliged  to 
repair  the  evil  you  commit.  And  yet  how 
many  there  are  who  exile  themselves  forever 
from  these  vital  joys  and  fly,  with  your  in- 
animate memorj^,  from  the  sweet  fulfillment  of 
their  fertile  destiny  !  " 

"  And  we?  We  shall  have  known  scarcely 
the  first  tremors  of  the  joy  of  earth.  We 
shall  hardly  have  inhaled  the  fragrance  of  a 
25 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

single  spray  in  tlic  limitless  gardens.  I  still 
sense  the  perfumes  of  the  city.  .  .  .  No,  to- 
day your  beauty  no  longer  moves  me ;  it  is 
lost  and  unavailing  like  an  inaccessible 
oasis." 

"  Some  day  you  will  rind  us  again." 

"  Perhaps.  .  .  .  But  the  long  absence 
alters  us  and  absolves  you." 

"  I  can  promise  you  the  contrary !  Your 
fiery  outlines,  cut,  loftier  and  more  beautiful 
every  day,  against  the  tumult  of  battle,  as- 
tonish and  oppress  us." 

"  If  I  were  sure  of  always  keeping  you,  I 
should  kneel  and  weep  for  the  joy  of  it.  But 
my  heart  congeals  and  grows  dry  to  think 
how  far  away  you  are,  at  the  mercy  of  un^ 
worthy  suitors.  And  I  check  the  tender 
songs,  the  warm  words  that  rise  to  my  tight- 
ened lips.   .  .   ." 

"  Your  present  life  makes  you  unjust  and 
hard.  A  few  among  3^ou,  I  hope,  will  under- 
stand and  have  pity.  ...  Of  all  the  rest  I 
26 


LOVE 

implore  a  little  less  distrust,  a  little  more 
respect.  Tonight,  I  see,  I  shall  not  reach 
your  heart.  I  shall  say  no  more  and  set 
forth  again.  .  .  ." 

I  wanted  to  speak  further  with  her,  to 
speak  more  sympathetically,  to  do  penance 
for  my  distress.   .   .   . 

My  shelter  seems  darker  than  before.  She 
is  no  longer  there.  .  .  .  That  soft  rumor,  is 
it  the  rustling  of  dead  leaves  or  the  whisper 
of  the  radiant  silk  that  envelops  her  brush- 
ing against  the  trees  in  her  flight.'^  .  .  . 
Those  sad  sounds,  puzzling,  prolonged,  do 
they  come  from  the  moaning  wind  or  from 
that  sorrow  which  grows  dim  and  fades 
awsLj?  ...  I  have  opened  my  door  upon 
the  night,  and  I  seek  again  the  beloved  way- 
farer whom  I  have  not  held  back  and  who 
has  not  remained  with  me. 

An  explosion  has  just  resounded  close  by. 
The  concussion  makes  me  stagger.  An  en- 
emy shell  has  burst  over  a  piece  in  our  first 
27 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

battery.     There  arc  four  wounded  and  two 
dead. 

Angrily  and  in  bitter  haste  we  bear  away 
the  mutilated  men  and  cover  with  tent-cloths 
the  remains  of  those  who  have  been  killed. 
The  diffused  light  of  a  lantern  falls  on  the 
decapitated  body  of  an  under-officer.  Be- 
tween his  shoulders  we  still  see  the  sticky 
orifice,  seething  and  red.  ...  Ah!  Throw 
quickly  over  this  corpse  the  cloth  your  trem- 
bling hands  hold. 


Ill 


DEATH 


THESE  horrors  of  an  atrocious  war  no 
longer  paralyse  our  energies.  An 
hour  afterward,  these  sanguinary  visions 
lose  their  sharpness  and  with  a  keener  deci- 
sion and  the  same  fatalistic  obstinacy  we  go 
on  with  the  task  alread}^  begun. 

I  look  at  my  watch ;  it  is  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  I  must  stand  guard  until  five. 
Those  evocations  of  the  past  rush  over  me 
again,  tinged  with  a  sardonic  melancholy. 
Memory,  love !  And  there  is  death  astir 
behind  these  consoling  and  friendly  phan- 
toms.  ... 

What !  Have  the}^  not  finished  torment- 
ing me  with  regrets,  deceitful  apparitions  of 
my  fancy  that  they  arc?  In  a  shadowy  cor- 
29 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

ncr    I    become    aware    of    another    eddy,    a 
strajigt>  breatli,   an   invasive  movement.   .   .   . 

"  Look  at  me.  Have  I  an  ill-favored 
form,  grimacing,  unsightly?  Do  I  frighten 
you?" 

A  young  woman,  wise,  throbbing,  exquisite, 
smiles  like  a  pitying  and  watchful  angel  at 
my  gaze.  Her  voice  is  fresh  and  musical 
like  a  spring  that  tumbles  over  white  pebbles 
and  cradles  the  tangled  hair  of  the  grasses. 

"  O  Death,  dark  morning,  victory  of  the 
shades,  do  you  assume  this  radiant  magi- 
cian's face  to  lure  us,  to  astound  us,  to  make 
us  cross  3^our  threshold  of  quick-lime,  stone, 
and  shadow?  " 

"  I  present  mj^self  to  3^ou  under  my  fa- 
miliar aspect  and  clothed  in  serenity." 

"  I  did  not  imagine  you  so." 

"  You  are  ignorant  children,  deluded  and 

heedless.     Do  yon  not  understand  that  you 

keep  alive  a  dissonance  in  the  music  of  this 

world?     But  I  shall  draw  you  out  of  that 

30 


DEATH 

abyss  where  you  devour  one  another,  where 
you  track  down  the  humble,  ingenuous  ani- 
mals and  barbarously  tear  away  their  skins. 
...  In  my  shining  gardens  I  shall  give  you 
calm,  order,  harmony.  .  .  .  When  I  meet 
you  in  these  caverns  it  is  so  easy  for  me  to 
engulf  you.  Already,  in  your  blue  uniforms, 
you  are  fragments  of  the  sky.  Almost  in- 
sensible is  your  passage  into  the  atmos- 
phere." 

"  Stay  1  All  the  springs,  all  the  summers 
that  we  still  might  live.  .  .  ." 

"  Do  not  give  way  to  regret.  You  should 
thirst  for  other  delights.  Turn  your  head. 
Lift  it.  All  the  enchantments  of  which  you 
dream,  all  the  cherished  thoughts  are  com- 
prehended in  the  terrible  deed  to  which  you 
are  constrained  today.  Spare  yourself  the 
slow  stages  of  a  whole  lifetime  of  suffering. 
Each  of  your  efforts  turns  for  its  meaning 
to  me.  But  in  the  struggle  you  keep  up 
your  transports  have  the  harmonious  force, 
31 


THE  FLAIVIE  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

the  passionate  melody  of  eternal  things. 
Your  activity  is  so  intense  that  it  leads  you, 
immediately,  to  me." 

"  Oh,  I  have  still  so  much  to  see  and  to 
love  in  this  world  I  Destiny  has  placed  me 
here,  a  sorry  creature  conscious  of  my  ap- 
proaching doom,  and  I  shall  have  passed  by 
so  many  beauties  I  shall  not  have  tasted, 
beauties  I  shall  never  have  truly  known  but 
for  which,  in  spite  of  all,  I  was  born.  Could 
I  have  torn  myself  from  ignorance,  filled  my 
sluggish  soul,  so  placid,  so  ephemeral,  with 
the  powers,  the  colors,  the  splendors  my  in- 
spired forefathers  have  lavished  on  this 
earthly  domain.   .   .   ." 

"  Here  you  are  like  beggars  in  the  squalor 
they  love.  I  end  your  ser\'itude.  I  open  the 
gate  of  that  narrow  prison  which  your  body 
is.  Ah!  crush  the  love  of  this  misery  to 
which  you  are  all  too  accustomed.  Hence- 
forth, your  existence  will  be  pure,  free  from 
the  base  sorrows  of  the  flesh." 
32 


DEATH 

**  No.  Not  yet.  My  eyes  are  made  for 
dwelling  on  these  perishable  delights,  my  arms 
for  clasping  these  pliant  things  to  which  life 
gives  birth  and  which  I  cannot  despise." 

"  You  must  lift  yourself  to  the  absolute, 
to  the  sublime,  where  they  are  whom  you  be- 
lieve dead  and  who  are  not  dead.  They  love 
you  and  they  summon  you  already.  They 
rise  from  their  graves,  they  quit  their  crys- 
talline heights  to  survej^  your  aspiring  com- 
panies, and  they  shed  tears  of  admiration." 

"  I  am  not  willing  to  vanish  yet." 

"  You  will  not  vanish.  When  you  have 
laid  aside  the  grievous  burden  of  your  flesh, 
you  will  be  transformed  into  impalpable 
graces,  wandering  and  purified  flames,  the 
supreme  and  secret  guardians  of  your  com- 
rades and  your  friends.  Those  that  have 
dwelt  in  France,  in  this  favored  corner  of  the 
earth,  still  float  in  its  hallowed  atmosphere. 
.  .  .  The  motherland?  It  is  the  garden 
where  one  has  grown  up  among  these  watch- 
33 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

ful  souls,  these  phantom  inspirers  and  pro- 
tectors. There,  man  becomes  an  aggregate 
of  rare  and  ancient  presences,  a  magnetic 
centre  that  attracts  so  man}^  burning  mem- 
ories, such  splendors  of  the  inner  life,  such 
invisible,  vibrant  forces,  perpetually  sus- 
pended in  space,  that  call  like  ships  at  the 
obscure  island  of  a  living  body  and  give  it 
loyalty  to  the  past,  guidance  for  the  future, 
and  all  the  divine,  intoxicating  fragrance  of 
the  infinite !  " 

"  Oh,  how  persuasive  and  consoling  is  your 
invitation  to  cross  the  gulf !  ^^Tiat  are  you, 
then?  An  exquisite,  deceitful  sophist  or  the 
queen  of  truth  ?  " 

"  Sincerity,  I  tell  you,  the  way  that  is 
pure  and  clear,  naked  rhythm,  the  beating 
wing  of  an  eternal  prayer !  As  for  you,  you 
toil  in  the  market-place  of  the  blind,  with- 
out perceiving  the  sages  that  smile  at  you, 
surprised  and  shy,  at  the  corner  of  the  enter- 
ing streets, —  without  drinking  of  the  cool 
34 


DEATH 

waters  of  the  spring.  Call  to  your  mind 
those  words  of  the  Gospel :  *  Ye  shall  know 
the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall  make  jou 
free!'" 

"  Your  sermon  is  all  very  well.  .  .  .  But 
I  should  prefer  not  to  be  so  quickly  deliv- 
ered from  existence.  Its  illusions  are  to  me 
a  precious  boon." 

"  From  which  you,  in  your  turn,  ought  to 
liberate  yourself.  Let  your  action  be  adven- 
turous, heroic,  and  spontaneous.  Realize 
how  unique  the  occasion  is.  By  a  noble,  re- 
ligious effort  you  can  surmount  these  accum- 
ulating horrors,  unite  yourself  with  our 
plenitude,  augment  our  ascending  caravan. 
Fugitive  shadow,  why  create  for  yourself  a 
covetous,  tyrannical  personality,  attached  to 
the  dust  that  is  going  to  regain  possession 
of  you,  instead  of  treading  these  ephemeral 
paths  humbly,  with  bent  head  and  clasped 
hands.?  You  are  not  indispensable  to  the 
movement  of  the  world,  you  are  not  essential 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

to  its  activity ;  the  clock  of  time  will  not 
be  put  out  of  order  by  your  disappear- 
ance." 

"  What  matter  if  you  do  snatch  us  from 
these  terrestrial  shores  toward  which  my 
heart  still  turns  !  Only,  in  the  bonds  of  our 
affection  my  friends  and  I  have  established  a 
fragile  and  precious  human  harmony.  You 
bring  confusion  into  it  by  taking  me  away." 

"  You  substitute,  then,  for  the  grand  equi- 
librium of  the  universe  these  pett}^  illusive 
economies.^  But  even  in  the  darkest  souls 
the  echo  of  the  eternal  rhythm  rings !  Be 
not  deceived ;  when,  in  this  war,  you  abandon 
your  existence,  the  living  will  praise  3^our 
generous  effort  less  than  your  own  deliver- 
ance, your  swift  arrival  at  the  radiant  city 
that  is  so  far  away.   .   .   ." 

"  You  see,  what  offends  and  distresses  me 

is  the  ugly,  sanguinary  martyrdom  you  have 

the  power  to  inflict  on  my  young  body,  so 

agile  and  vigorous,  its  decay  in  some  ditch 

36 


DEATH 

unknown  to  those  that  might  bedew  it  with 
their  tears  and  their  prayers." 

"  Ah,  shrewd,  cautious  soldier,  that  har- 
rowing pity  for  the  beloved  remains  that  de- 
cay in  the  earth  does  not  so  much  disturb  the 
minds  of  today.  .  .  .  Has  not  the  disinte- 
gration that  you  fear  already  begun  to  take 
place  in  these  burrows  you  have  inhabited 
for  two  years  ?  " 

"  And  so  you  are  quite  convinced  that  our 
burial  will  be  for  us  only  the  continuation  of 
our  present  way  of  living?  " 

"  This  evil  garment  of  flesh,  these  obscure 
indignities,  why  should  they  matter  to  you, 
after  all?  From  the  spot  where  it  will  be 
hidden  may  rise,  perhaps,  a  beautiful  leafy 
tree,  a  fragrant  rosebush,  more  than  a  few 
swaying  stems  of  nourishing  grain.  .  .  . 
You  do  not  know  my  secret  designs  and  for 
what  an  inexhaustible  harmony  you  have  been 
created  and  are  going  to  die.  ...  Be  brave. 
Be  strong.  Be  noble." 
37 


THE  1  LAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

"  Since,  this  night,  you  feel  pity  for  me, 
do  not  leave  nie  in  this  agonizing  ignorance. 
Tell  me.   .   .   ." 

With  one  white  finger  on  her  closed  and 
smiling  lips,  the  enigmatical  young  woman 
has  already  disappeared  in  a  ray  of  the  ris- 
ing sun.   .   .  . 

And  behold,  a  profound,  sorrowful  impulse 
urges  me  to  follow  that  angel  of  despair.  A 
serene  desire  for  death  and  departure  points 
my  way  to  the  supreme  adventure.  A  som- 
bre longing  for  annihilation  treads  under  foot 
my  wishes  of  an  hour  ago.  Yes,  to  go,  even 
I,  down  there,  to  efface  myself  in  the  general 
mystery  of  things,  to  engulf  myself  in  the 
dim  tranquillity  of  the  numberless  dead,  to 
tear  myself  from  illusion,  from  discord,  and 
from  cruelty.   .   .   . 

In    a    tremorous    light,    in    some    illusory 
scene  beyond   time   and   space,   the   beloved 
events  of  my  past  come  to  life  again.  .  .  . 
38 


DEATH 

In  a  luminous  rapture  I  make  my  confession, 
murmuring: 

"  I  thank  thee,  my  God,  for  having  granted 
me,  in  these  so  few  years,  all  the  charms  and 
all  the  sorrows  of  life.  That  I  might  the 
better  appreciate  its  joys,  you  caused  me  to 
be  born  in  wretchedness  and  obscurity.  In 
your  grace  you  elected  me  to  hear  your  di- 
vine voice  even  in  the  violence  of  men.  You 
permitted  me  to  keep  in  my  heart  the  full 
discourse  of  your  religion  while  others  in 
their  old  age  lost  their  way  and  forgot  you 
in  this  degrading  dungeon  of  life.  Your 
mercy  toward  me  is  infinite  and  I  see  a  new 
proof  of  it  in  that  you  permit  the  axe  of 
death  to  strike  my  brow  while  I  am  still 
young  and  have  hardly  begun  to  taste  the 
mortification  of  decrepitude. 

"  At  first,  you  let  me  run  wild  like  an  ani- 
mal in  the  gardens  of  the  earth,  and  that  I 
might  marvel  at  their  verdant  activity  in  the 
39 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

splendor  jou  had  permitted  them,  jou  tore 
away  the  veils  that  obscured  my  sight  and  I 
rejoiced  like  a  child  intoxicated  with  your 
holiness. 

"  Later,  you  exalted  so  high,  so  brightly 
lighted  up  my  poor  heart  of  dust  that  it 
shone  in  space  like  your  well-beloved  stars 
and  drank  in  the  flowery  prospects  of  the 
world. 

"  Lord,  you  have  made  me  wander  in  stir- 
ring countries,  inspiring  and  splendid,  and  I 
have  travelled  round  and  round  this  globe  as 
if  it  did  not  suffice  me,  as  if  the  atmospheric 
current  of  other  planets  were  drawing  me 
even  when  I  might  have  died  in  some  dark 
comer,  ignorant  of  your  ineffable  footprints. 

"  What  my  eyes  could  not  see  you  have  let 
my  heart  find  by  offering  me  the  disquieting 
spectacle  of  events  that  were  humble  in  seem- 
ing but  of  infinite  significance. 

"  You  have  filled  me  with  a  vast  and  quick- 
ening love  for  my  fellowmen,  and  since  I  had 
40 


DEATH 

no  child  of  m}-  own  you  have  laid  upon  the 
bodies  of  these  men  a  childlike  feebleness,  giv- 
ing me  the  power  to  sustain  them  like  a  father 
with  all  my  youthful  strength. 

"  I  have  reason  to  be  proud  that  you  have 
averted  wickedness  from  my  path  and  that 
to  spare  me  the  bitterness  of  remorse  you 
have  thrown  me  into  the  grievous  turmoil  of 
the  war.  Lord,  I  bless  your  name  for  having 
looked  down  upon  my  weakness  and  for 
granting  me  death  in  such  circumstances  that 
I  can  believe  it  has  befallen  me  as  an  atone- 
ment for  the  violent  things  I  have  done. 

"  Lastly,  you  have  let  me  spring  up  in  the 
fullness  of  day,  with  all  the  freshness,  the 
abundance,  the  bold  suppleness  of  a  jet  of 
water  that  mounts  toward  your  balconies, 
and  behold,  you  add  to  your  bounty  the  su- 
preme boon:  you  cut  it  short  without  caus- 
ing me  pain,  and  I  expire  in  the  moment  of 
taking  flight  toward  your  heavenly  ter- 
races. .   .  ." 

41 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Already',  liow  liglit  it  is  ! 

Strange,  unshapely  insects,  of  some  un- 
heard of  species,  throng  my  table,  my  papers, 
troops  of  them  skipping  happily  about  as 
the  night  grows  pale.  In  the  intervals  be- 
tween explosions  the  placid,  indifferent,  un- 
concerned note  of  the  cuckoo  lifts  itself,  and 
the  frail  and  chirping  cry  of  the  marsh  war- 
bler. The  day  rises  swiftly,  furtively  steal- 
ing in,  like  a  pirate  returned  from  a  raiding 
expedition  who  tosses  with  full  hands  into 
my  shadowy  cavern  his  ingots  of  glittering 
gold.     My  watch  is  ended. 

I  go  forth  to  drink  in  the  new  morning. 
The  chilly,  velvety  air  presses  my  face.  My 
reason,  which  has  recovered  its  equilibrium, 
marvels  and  smiles  at  these  nocturnal  dia- 
logues. 

Verdun.     May  26,  1916. 


m 


MEMORY 


IV 


POETRAITS    AND    IMAGES 

I  SHOULD  prefer  not  to  afflict  your  eyes, 
already  saddened  by  so  many  unmerited 
miseries,  so  many  crushing  atrocities,  with 
an}'  more  pictures  of  suffering  and  cruelty. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  have  explored  that 
abyss.  I  do  not  wish  even  to  preserve  the 
memory  of  it.  I  threw  away  my  first  note- 
book, because  I  believed  that  by  some  mag- 
netic force  that  revocation  of  tragic  hours 
would  call  up  others  to  mj^  sight.   .   .   . 

But,  O  my  lost  friends,  my  tortured  broth- 
ers, can  I  in  after  years  forget  your  dishon- 
ored features,  the  unknown  sacrifices  of  your 
pathetic  heroism?  Shall  I  forget,  even  I,  my 
own  strange  sensations  and  all  these  spec- 
tacles of  a  black  and  furious  humanity.'* 
Too  well  I  feel  it ;  I  must  keep  watch,  I  must 
45 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

keep  watch  for  myself  over  this  collection 
of  portraits  and  images  of  a  reality  so  bitter 
and  so  poignant  that  it  surpasses  all  the 
visions  of  nightmare  and  delirium. 

Only,  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  transcribe 
these  agonies  with  too  great  exactitude. 
They  have  all  passed  through  a  heart  that  is 
torn  with  pity  and  sadness,  in  a  grey  and 
trembling  atmosphere.  .  .  .  And  besides  — 
I  say  it  sincerely  —  I  fear  lest  over-exact 
evocations  will  bring  back  again  these  days  of 
death  and  ferocity. 

My  heart,  conduct  me  through  this  gulf, 
raise  up,  in  your  diffused,  wavering  light,  this 
wreckage  and  these  bones  which  my  memory 
consecrates,  purifies,  loves.   .   .   . 


I  have  always  had  a  fearful  conception  of 

what  life  must  be  like  under  the  sea  where 

monsters  are  eternally  at  war,  devouring  one 

another.     Just   why   I   do   not   know,  but   I 

46 


PORTRAITS  AND  IMAGES 

feel  as  if  I  had  been  immersed,  bewildered,  in 
these  oceans  of  murder.  .  .  .  And  behold  on 
the  shore  a  humble  and  unskilful  book.  .  .  . 
When,  O  my  God,  shall  I  remount  to  the  sur- 
face, to  the  light .? 

*     *     * 

I  have  gone  over  in  detail  everything  that 
is  to  follow,  a  detail  the  intensity  of  which 
sickens  me  whenever  I  reread  my  notes.  My 
already  confused  sensibility  drooped  or  grew 
feverish  over  these  brutal  recitals.  No 
longer  will  I  listen  to  this  maddening  voice. 
I  must  recall  these  things  calmly,  transmut- 
ing the  fever  into  a  vibration  that  is  pathetic, 
soothing,  transparent.  ...  I  shall  suffer 
less  from  these  dulled  recollections.  In  this 
way  I  shall  call  up  as  tenderly  as  I  can  my 
beloved  and  sorrowful  existence  of  today.  I 
shall  show  myself  neither  stronger  nor 
weaker  than  I  am.  Has  not  a  great  writer 
—  who  was  it?  —  spoken  of  a  "heroic  mel- 
ancholy "  ? 

47 


THE    BURNING  GAZE 

THE  observation  post  which  I  command 
is  very  flimsy,  built  like  a  great  eagle's 
nest,  suspended  among  the  trees,  on  the  spur 
of  a  bluish  hill.  It  affords  views  of  the  whole 
of  our  sector.  It  seems  almost  to  slip  over 
the  edge  of  the  promontory  that  descends  to 
the  estuary  of  the  shaggy  meadow.  It  ad- 
vances on  the  enemy  like  the  prow  of  a  ship, 
of  which  the  flanks,  stern,  and  rigging  are 
still  hidden  in  the  mist. 

All  the  violent  engagements  that  have 
taken  place  here  have  not  consumed  the 
beauty  of  this  landscape. 

Three  devastated  villages  lie  prone  in  the 
valley,  behind  our  first  lines.  The  crumbling 
old  houses  stare  in  sad  astonishment  at  their 
48 


THE  BURNING  GAZE 

wounds  reflected  in  the  swiftly  running  wat- 
ers. A  few  red  tiles  still  cling  to  the  torn 
roofs  of  these  ancient  cottages  that  so 
suggest  pathetic,  mumbling,  old  paralyzed 
granddams,  their  hair  bound  in  great  ker- 
chiefs with  red  squares.  The  mournful,  mis- 
shapen silhouettes  of  rickety  and  rusty 
ploughs,  ox-carts,  broken  trucks  stand  out 
against  the  tumultuous  horizon.  And  all 
these  suppliant  things  speak  to  the  heart, 
lamenting  their  sorrows,  begging  for  pity  or 
revenge.  .  .  .  The  church  alone,  ecstatic, 
pra3'erful,  careless  of  her  wounds,  lifts  aloft 
the  cracked  and  tottering  belfry  which  has 
slid  back,  so  to  say,  on  her  neck  like  an  as- 
trologer's cap,  catching  every  night  on  its 
dark  point  a  resplendent  star. 

I  have  scrutinized  these  landscapes  of  the 
Meuse  so  long  that  they  have  inlaid  them- 
selves upon  my  sight  in  lines  of  fire.  I  still 
see  them  when  I  close  my  eyelids.  Beautiful, 
pathetic  fragment  of  the  countryside  that 
49 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

haunts  my  gaze,  I  carry  you  with  me  folded 
u})  in  a  corner  of  my  memory. 


The  personnel  of  the  observation  post  com- 
prises infantrymen,  artillerymen,  and  sap- 
pers. But  they  are  no  longer  distinguish- 
able from  one  another.  Their  present  work 
obliterates  all  differences.  Thcj'  are  no 
longer  anything  but  lookout-men.  Tbeir 
whole  will  is  focussed  in  a  gaze,  the  concen- 
trated clearness  of  which  is  directed,  like  a 
sword,  like  a  fiery  thrust,  upon  the  enemy. 
The  instinct  of  the  chase  has  remounted  from 
our  ancestral  depths.  It  has  perfected  it- 
self. It  has  acquired  a  feverish,  a  flashing 
acuteness.  Everything  gives  place  to  the 
sharp  desire  to  spy  out  the  enemy.  To  this 
phosphorescent  vision,  this  subtile  sense  of 
hearing,  there  is  added  a  strange,  fierce  in- 
stinct that  makes  one  scent  the  enemy,  fore- 
see the  place  whither  he  is  moving,  bite  one's 
50 


THE  BURNING  GAZE 

clenched  hands  that  one  cannot  pursue  him, 
spring  at  his  throat  and  throw  him  in  a  re- 
lentless struggle  of  wild  beasts. 

A  branch  that  trembles,  a  wisp  of  smoke, 
a  fresh  tint  of  earth,  of  tracks  in  the  miry 
road,  the  swelling  of  a  breastwork,  a  swift 
streak  of  flame,  a  tiny  upper  window  where  a 
shadow  stirs,  have  for  us  an  exact  and  pas- 
sionate significance.  The  cunning  enemy 
hides  in  the  ground  and  creeps  along  under 
cover  of  the  high  grass.  But  nothing  that 
happens  passes  unperceived.  We  can  see 
him  move  ten  kilometers  behind  his  lines. 
The  telescope  that  throws  its  bright  reflec- 
tions within  the  penumbra  of  the  observatory 
accuses  the  distant  and  detested  shadows. 
They  stir  in  its  field  of  view  like  bacilli  and 
microbes  across  a  microscope,  veritable  mal- 
ady as  they  are  of  the  suffering  earth. 

To  anyone  who  surveys  it  for  the  first  time, 
the  panorama  of  this  battlefield  appears  life- 
less, deserted,  animated  only  by  the  turmoil 
51 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

of  the  shells  that  glide  wailing  through  the 
air  as  if  on  a  road  of  glass  and  at  the  point 
of  impact  toss  aloft  the  spurting  clay,  like 
jets  of  black  water.  To  us  the  scene  is  al- 
ways in  rolling  and  convulsive  motion.  On 
these  slopes,  which  seem  empty  and  soli- 
tary, we  discover  the  enemy  everywhere,  his 
squat,  breathless  motor-cars,  his  heavy  horse- 
men, his  hypocritical  workmen,  defilers  and 
despoilers.  The  Teuton  is  in  perpetual  dis- 
cord with  this  precious  landscape;  it  rejects 
him,  betrays  him,  disclaims  him,  points  him 
out  as  a  sick  man  points  out  the  abscess  that 
consumes  him. 


Colonel  de   M ,   who   comes   now   and 

then  to  my  observatory,  had  given  me  per- 
mission to  unloose  the  fire  of  our  batteries 
on  certain  important  objectives  which  might 
suddenly  come  into  my  sight.  Eight  days 
ago,  a  long  brown,  sinuous  mass  crawled  over 
52 


THE  BURNING  GAZE 

a  certain  narrow,  white  road,  and  moved 
back.  I  observed  it  through  the  glass,  while 
on  his  side  the  man  on  watch  examined  it. 
...  A  single  cry,  hollow  and  brief.  I  take 
certain  measurements  on  the  map.  Then,  I 
fling  through  the  telephone  : 

"  Auw  coordonnees  X  —  .  .  .  Y  —  ... 
A  troop  of  about  two  hundred  men  is  de- 
scending  on   Ch .     Fire !     I   am   watch- 

ing." 

A  moment  after,  a  hurricane  of  artillery 
beats  down  on  the  enemy  reinforcements. 
.  .   .  That    evening,    in    the    shelter    of    my 

friend  L^ ,  we  finished  the  cherry-brandy 

which  he  had  been  keeping  for  great  occa- 
sions   at   the   bottom   of   his    canteen.     And 

L ,  his  eyes  sparkling  and  happy,  said  to 

me: 

"  By  Jove,  my  boy !  It 's  not  every  day 
that  we  demolish  as  many  as  that.   .   .   ." 

Time    was    when    Captain    G ,    seeing 

some  Bavarians  debouch  at  fifteen  hundred 
53 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

meters,  hesitated  before  giving  the  order  to 
fire.     Later  he  confessed  to  me: 

"  I  had  a  momentary  feehng  of  immense 
pity  when  I  saw  those  active,  breathing 
young  men  who  were  going  to  be  massa- 
cred and  whose  existence  lay  wholly  in  my 
hands  .   .  ." 

That   perplexity   does   honor   to    Captain 

G .     Nevertheless,  I  must  add  that  his 

battery  opened  the  fire  of  hell  on  the  enemy 
column,  anniliilating  it.      Since  then,  Captain 

G has  been  severely  wounded.     He  has 

come  back  from  the  front  mutilated.  He 
has  experienced  to  the  full  the  adversary's 
methods  of  combat.  He  knows  these  scru- 
ples no  more. 


Having  been  for  so  long  on  the  watch,  re- 
tired   within    ourselves    and    alone,    on    this 
height,  we  have  acquired  a  strange  perspi- 
cacity, harassing  and  acute.     We  know  one 
54 


THE  BURNING  GAZE 

another  to  the  bottom  and  we  know  very 
well,  too,  what  we  are  worth.  Newcomers 
are  embarrassed  by  the  hard,  searching 
glances  we  give  them.  People  try  to  avoid 
those  glances  when  we  descend  into  the  plain. 
We  see  through  people  too  easily  and  even 
when  we  smile  we  are  sizing  up  what  they  are 
feeling  and  doing. 

The  ordinary  passions  that  held  us  once 
have  lost  their  strength  and  their  attraction. 
Events,  spectacles,  suffering  affect  our  hearts 
differently  from  the  way  they  once  did.  The 
instinct  of  the  chase,  of  self-preservation,  a 
few  naked  and  precise  ideas,  senses  that  are 
pure,  clean,  penetrating,  possess  us  and  alone 
direct  us.  The  details  of  the  phenomena  of 
life  and  death  do  not  interest  us  any  more. 

We  have  thrown  our  former  personalities 
into  a  common  mould;  and  from  the  stream 
of  youth  and  energy  which  they  form  we  have 
drawn  forth  identical  individualities,  fervent 
and  simplified. 

55 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Vigorous,  piercing  glances  eager  to  ferret 
out,  track  down  and  taste  the  abhorred  and 
deadly  prey,  can  you  any  longer  adapt  your- 
selves to  the  little  tendernesses  of  life,  its 
peaceful,  natural  activities,  its  lesser,  briefer 
sorrows,  will  you  ever  again  veil  yourselves 
with  tears? 


This  dynamic,  magnetic  power  of  the  eye 
which  makes  us  foresee  the  position  the  en- 
emy is  going  to  take,  follows  him  into  the 
thicket  and  drives  him  to  his  fate,  this  lumi- 
nous snare  sometimes  disquiets  us  and  makes 
us  tremble  ourselves.  It  seems  as  if  a  mys- 
terious faculty  of  divination  had  risen  up  in 
us.  I  recall  with  a  pang  that  last  year  in 
Artois  a  tall  old  lieutenant  came  to  our 
observation  post  close  to  the  enemy  lines. 
He  wore  with  an  air  of  easy  elegance  a  dark 
old-fashioned  uniform.  His  sad,  grave,  res- 
olute face  was  crossed  with  a  long,  silvery 
56 


THE  BURNING  GAZE 

moustache.  Careless  of  the  bullets  and  the 
crashing  shells  he  took  off  his  cap,  exposing 
his  head  with  its  grey  temples.  I  remarked 
to  him  that  persistent  temerity  might  not 
only  cause  the  deatli  of  our  men  —  which,  on 
the  whole,  he  might  not  consider  very  impor- 
tant —  but  might  also  cause  the  destruction 
of  our  observatory,  which  was  an  excellent 
one.     He  replied,  loftily: 

"  I  am  here  to  accomplish  my  mission. 
Nothing  else  concerns  me." 

He  walked  on,  still  feverish.  But  he  had 
become  more  prudent.  His  energetic  expres- 
sion attracted  us.  His  long  flexible  neck, 
corded  with  projecting  veins,  one  of  which 
was  especially  purple  and  swollen,  impressed 
us,  held  our  eyes  wide,  I  scarcely  know  why. 
Three  days  afterward,  while  I  was  on  my  way 
to  the  battery  past  the  branch-trenches  I 
stood  aside  to  give  passage  to  two  stretcher- 
bearers  who  were  carrying  a  wounded  man. 

I  turned  and  recognized  Lieutenant  M , 

57 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

lying  lielpless.  He  had  at  his  neck  a  great 
bloody  star. 

It  seems  absurd,  no  doubt,  to  extract  a 
meaning  from  this  singular  fact.  But  have 
not  certain  animals  the  tragic  gift  of  fore- 
seeing the  approaching  death  of  beings  that 
surround  them?  And  has  not  the  war  in  cer- 
tain respects  thrown  us  back  to  the  primal 
simplicities  ? 

Absurd  or  not,  a  strange,  superstitious 
fear  has  forbidden  us  since  that  day  to  scru- 
tinize too  insistently  the  faces  that  are  dear 
to  us.  .  .  . 


58 


VI 


THE    LAZAR-HOUSE 


THE  fair  young  woman  looks  at  me  pen- 
sively. 

"If  you  return  to  your  observation  post," 
she  says  to  me  in  a  grave,  sorrowful  voice, 
"  stop  at  the  house  which  you  find  at  the 

crossing  of  the  roads  to and .     It 

is  the  farm  where  we  used  to  live  before  the 
war.  It  has  a  modern  appearance.  But 
there  is  something  odd-looking  about  it  be- 
cause it  was  built  on  the  site  and  even  on  the 
foundations  of  an  ancient  lazar-house.  .  .  . 
You  will  tell  us  if  the  enemy's  artillery  has 
not  too  far  destroyed  it.  .  .  ." 

A  few  days  later,  I  passed  by  the  strange 
house,  its  grey  and  red  a  crumbling  ruin. 
59 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

.  .  .  The  bricks  of  a  part  of  the  facade  had 
fallen  right  into  the  road,  forming  what 
looked  like  an  inexhaustible  stream  of  blood. 
.  .  .  Some  soldiers  were  living  in  the  ruined 
farm. 


An  attack  took  place  yesterday.  The 
prisoners  are  still  packed  in  this  devastated 
house.  They  do  not  talk  together.  Sus- 
picious, sullen,  emaciated,  they  watch  each 
other  and  us  with  a  sly  dread.  A  sergeant 
with  great  red  moustaches,  blue  eyes,  and  a 
broad  nose  listens,  motionless  and  attentive, 
to  these  words  of  a  French  lieutenant  of  in- 
fantry : 

"  Your  lying  diplomacy  is  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  whole  world.  It  has  reached  the 
limit :  no  one  will  ever  again  believe  what  you 
say.  Your  leaders  have  dressed  up  the  truth 
a  little  too  clumsily.  .  .  .  Do  you  under- 
stand me.  Monsieur  Adolf?  To  lead  a  great 
60 


THE  LAZAR-HOUSE 

people  one  must  have  a  great  character.  .  .  . 
But  you  are  not  a  great  people.  ...  A  band 
of  slaves,  that 's  what  you  are.  .  .  .  Truth, 
liberty,  one  breathes  such  things  in  our  coun- 
try!    As  for  yours.   .   .  ." 

The  phrases  of  my  comrade  reach  me  punc- 
tured by  a  sudden  series  of  explosions.  The 
enemy  has  again  begun  to  bombard  the  road. 
The  order  is  given  to  descend  into  the  base- 
ment. 

*     *     * 

This  great  cellar,  with  its  massive  vaults, 
its  whitewashed  walls,  resembles  an  ancient 
hospital  ward.  ...  In  the  blinking  light  of 
the  candles,  the  lean,  sallow  aspect  of  the 
prisoners  takes  on  an  expression  of  austerity 
and  suffering.  Their  faces  with  closed  eye- 
lids and  heavy  jaws,  their  sorry  air,  their 
stiff  angular  bodies,  give  one  the  impression 
of  a  humanity  that  is  unfinished,  badly  cut 
out,  pushed  forward  into  this  epoch  of  ours 
with  the  b^ows  of  a  rifle  butt. 
61 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

A  sudden  shock  makes  the  walls  tremble. 
The  muffled  explosion  of  a  shell  sends  us  a 
volley  of  stones  and  suffocating  smoke.  .  .  . 
An  enemy  projectile  has  cracked  the  heavy 
ceiling  of  the  basement.  Several  men  are 
thrown  to  the  ground  and  covered  with  de- 
bris. They  pull  themselves  up  haggard  with 
fear.  By  a  miracle,  nobody  is  wounded. 
The  lights  are  kindled  again. 


We  retire  to  the  other  end  of  the  white, 
subterranean  chamber.  My  confused  eye  en- 
dows with  strange  forms  the  beings  about 
me  and  a  feeling  of  hallucination  invades  me 
and  masters  my  reason. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  world  had  returned 
to  the  year  one  thousand.  The  enemy  shell 
that  had  perforated  the  ceiling  appeared  to 
have  rent  the  veil  of  time  and  broken  space 
asunder.  So  vast  was  the  gap  it  had  made 
that  it  had  spanned  the  dead  centuries  and 
62 


THE  LAZAR-HOUSE 

their  secrets.  ...  In  this  decayed  lazar- 
house  the  Middle  Ages  rose  again,  like  a 
black  spring  jetting  up  from  the  past. 

In  one  corner  I  observed  a  number  of 
human  bones  heaped  up  together  like  gnarled 
faggots  gathered  in  the  forest.  Inadver- 
tently, someone  struck  them  with  his  foot. 
The  funereal  pile  collapsed.  ...  A  sort  of 
deep  trembling  communicated  itself  to  the 
very  fibres  of  our  being.  The  most  ancient 
sentiments  agitated  us,  took  hold  of  us ;  we 
breathed  the  thick,  despairing  atmosphere  of 
a  thousand  years  ago.  The  violent  phys- 
ical miseries  that  tormented  our  ancestors 
clutched  at  our  flesh  and  infected  it,  as  if  we 
had  been  reborn  in  their  exhausted,  servile 
bodies. 

The  Teuton  prisoners,  with  sombre  faces, 
press  close  together,  ignominiously  shudder- 
ing, a  herd  surprised  by  the  storm.  I  am 
struck  anew  by  their  cadaverous  masks  that 
suggest  the  baffled  intruder,  their  frustrate 
63 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

and  backward  sensibility,  the  barriers  raised 
by  their  dark  rancor.  .  .  .  They  have  come 
to  life,  those  wretched  serfs  the  reprobate 
"  roturiers  "  of  the  ]\liddle  Ages,  who  raised 
up  over  the  desolate  earth  famine,  leprosy, 
and  the  black  death.  There  they  are,  calam- 
itous and  of  evil  omen,  trailing  with  them  all 
their  mediaeval  misery. 

Must  we  pen  them  up  once  more,  those 
lepers  whose  deadly  breath  makes  one  shud- 
der? The  long  years  have  not  gone  by,  the 
world  has  not  been  renewed.  The  agonizing 
scenes  of  ten  centuries  ago  seem  actual  and 
familiar  to  me. 

With  gestures  that  are  intended  to  be 
brusk  but  are  really  controlled,  simple  and 
almost  pious,  our  men  distribute  bread  and 
preserves  to  the  prisoners.  .  .  .  My  com- 
rades seem  like  lords  of  the  manor,  equerries, 
plebeians  and  peasants,  impassioned  with 
charity  and  just  come  from  the  town  to  give 
alms  to  the  fierce  lepers,  the  plague-stricken, 
64 


THE  LAZAR-HOUSE 

the  criminals.  .  .  .  There  is  the  page  As- 
torg;  Boniface,  Robin  the  weaver,  Oliver, 
Robert,  Didier,  Odon  the  tool-maker  and 
Fulcran  the  goldsmith.  .  .  .  Taciturn,  glut- 
tonous, the  captives  devour  the  provisions. 
Our  soldiers,  withdrawing  to  a  distance,  con- 
tinue to  watch  with  burning  curiosity  the 
group  of  prisoners,  swarming  like  immense 
hobgoblins  in  the  shadow.  .  .  .  You  would 
say  our  men  were  leaning  over  an  abyss 
where  the  damned  were  writhing,  having  re- 
ceived their  food  and  words  of  cheer.  .  .  . 
An  immense  quickening  pity  rises  up  out 
of  the  crumbling  stones  of  this  lazar-house 
and  mounts  to  our  hearts.  Time  and  space 
are  lost  ideas.  (For  several  minutes  I  can- 
not even  represent  them  to  myself.)  And 
suddenly  bodies,  objects  dissolve  and  are  vol- 
atilized into  wisps  of  opaque  mist  and  golden 
dust.  Of  the  life  that  is  dear  to  me,  real  to 
me,  all  that  remains,  all  that  exists  is  a 
soft,  delightful  feeling,  a  warm,  pure  idea. 
65 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Thought  has   separated   itself   from   matter 
and  its  unworthy  lusts. 


The  enemy's  bombardment  has  ceased. 
We  all  return  to  the  ground-floor  of  the 
farmhouse.  We  assemble  the  prisoners,  who 
are  to  be  conducted  to  the  rear. 

I  go  out.  The  air  is  cold.  A  sentinel, 
his  hands  crossed  on  a  level  with  his  face, 
looks  as  if  he  were  holding  aloft  a  straight, 
slender  flame.  It  is  a  bayonet  which  the  man 
is  holding,  at  the  cross-bar,  and  the  steel  re- 
flects the  setting  sun. 

The  enemy  has  just  sent  us  some  phosphor 
shells.  The  holes  they  have  dug  begin  to 
sparkle  strangely.  One  might  think  they 
had  burst  in  a  soil  full  of  diamonds.  The 
cortege  of  prisoners,  encircled  with  bayonets, 
ascends  the  road  and  is  lost  among  the  shad- 
owy fields.     Evening  falls  over  us. 


66 


vn 


MOMENTS    OF    STORM 


A  POST  of  thirty-four  Germans,  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides,  refuses  to  surren- 
der. We  attack  them  from  above  with  hand 
grenades  and  rifle-shots.  An  under-officer 
lights  a  cigarette  in  defiance  of  our  men.  He 
is  struck  down. 


A  305  has  fallen.  It  passed  through  a 
house  without  bursting.  It  passed  through 
another  house  and  burst  there.  About  sixty 
chasseurs  were  in  it.  Thirty  killed  or 
wounded.  Groans  and  cries.  One  chasseur 
is  cut  in  two,  in  the  middle.  He  drags  him- 
self forward  on  his  hands,  in  a  trail  of  blood, 
abandoning  half  of  his  body,  and  screams, 

screams.  .  .  . 

*     *     * 

67 


MOMENTS  OF  STORM 

There  are  two  brothers  and  their  cousin, 
infantrymen,  who  liave  been  condemned  to 
death.  At  first  their  courage  rose  to  the 
assault  and  the  troop  occupied  the  little  vil- 
lage and  chased  out  the  enemy.  Then,  sud- 
denly, they  started  a  panic.  .  .  . 

They  are  on  their  way  to  execution.  The 
cousin  carries  himself  well.  He  even  wishes 
not  to  have  a  bandage.  But  the  two  broth- 
ers. .  .  . 

As  the  shower  of  bullets  strikes  them,  one 
of  them  cries  out  in  terrible  anguish: 

"  Do  not  kill  my  brother  !  " 

The  under-officer  weeps  while  he  gives  them 
the  coup-de-grace  with  a  trembling  revolver. 


We  are  engaged  in  a  task  that  has  all  the 
elements  of  grandeur.  We  are  the  exact,  the 
disciplined  executors  of  instinct.  If  the  end 
were  not  very  noble  and  very  vast,  we  should 
not  conduct  ourselves  quite  as  we  do.  When 
68 


MOMENTS  OF  STORM 

shall  we  be  wise  enough,  worthy  enough  to 
penetrate  into  the  hidden  meaning  of  all  these 
violent  acts  imposed  on  us  by  destiny? 


The  words  I  have  most  frequently  heard 
during  the  war  have  been,  "  Me,  me,  I, 
I  .   .   ." 

At  every  turn  men  fling  their  personalities 
in  one's  face.  War  lays  men  bare.  The 
natural  being  is  revealed  in  the  nakedness  of 
his  defects  and  qualities.  Everybody  thrusts 
his  individuality  upon  one's  attention.  The 
passion  to  show  oneself,  to  push  oneself  for- 
ward.  .  .  . 

Lieutenant   P ,   who    is    attracted   by 

the  idea  of  aristocracy,  says  to  me :  "  Po- 
liteness is  also  charity.  Today  one  easily 
distinguishes  those  who  have  a  heredity  of 
courtesy,  who  come  of  educated  stock.  The 
flimsy  mask  of  the  others  that  dates  back 
only  one  generation  falls  away  very  quickly, 
69 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

while  the  men  of  race  reveal  their  natural 
exquisitencss  little  by  little  and  guard  off 
every  sort  of  moral  maladdress.  The  former 
are  all  alike.  Amid  these  searching  ordeals 
you  gradually  fathom  the  latter." 

Exaggerated    words,    unjust    and    many 
times  disproved. 


Passed  through  Bourget,  Noisy-le-Sec,  on 
the  way  to  Verdun.  We  stopped  two  min- 
utes at  Bourgipt.  From  the  train,  from  the 
door  of  the  compartment,  we  marvelled  at  the 
outlines  of  the  monuments  of  Paris.  A 
dream.  The  Eiffel  Tower,  the  Sacre-Cceur, 
the  Trocadero  were  darkly  profiled  against  a 
bright  clear  sky.  They  looked  as  if  they 
were  built  out  of  mist.  How  strange  that 
impalpable  appearance  is !  .  .  .  Little  by 
little,  regretfully,  we  left  them  behind.  .  .  . 
Slender  factory  chimneys,  shooting  up- 
ward. .  .  . 

70 


MOMENTS  OF  STORM 

In  our  new  position,  on  the  opposite  slope. 
The  little  road  is  pitted  with  shell-holes. 
Shrill  whistlings,  silken  rustlings,  concentric 
rumblings  of  numberless  enemy  shells.  They 
have  not  buried  the  horses  killed  on  the  road. 
One  of  them  has  been  covered  up  by  a  150. 
He  thrusts  out  his  doleful  head,  wild,  strug- 
gling.    A  terrible  stench. 


At  four  o'clock  this  morning,  I  went  with 
a  wagon  to  a  magazine  that  had  been  blown 
up  to  get  some  planks  for  our  shelters. 
Charred  to  cinders.  Walls  tumbling  down. 
Cracked  and  broken  boards.  Fire  and  ruin. 
There  still  remain  many  tapes  of  bullets  for 
the  machine-guns,  and  several  shields.  We 
hasten;  the  wagon  is  not  large  enough.  I 
lift  a  plank  to  my  shoulder.  All  my  men  do 
the  same.  On  the  way  back  someone  makes 
a  joke.  .  .  .  The  captain  approves  me: 

"  Be  the  first  to  obey  the  orders  you  give. 
71 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Ajuong  us  that  is  the  best  way  to  command." 

*     *     ♦ 

We  attack  today.  Rain,  snow,  and  hail. 
One  sinks  knecdeep  in  the  mire.  After  a  suf- 
ficiently momentous  artillery  preparation, 
our  infantry  fling  themselves  to  the  assault. 
They  advance  further  than  the  appointed  ob- 
jective. Brave,  brave  men !  One  would  not 
have  thought  they  could  attack  in  such 
weather.     We  surround  a  Boche  battalion. 

Just   as    L ,   the    young   doctor,    asks 

me  for  a  pair  of  scissors  and  distracts  my 
attention  from  the  battery,  a  splinter  from  a 
150  strikes  my  back.  My  clothes,  my  silk 
vest  throw  it  off  but  I  receive  a  terrible  shock, 
just  as  if  someone  had  hit  me  with  a  stick, 
struck  me  in  the  ribs  with  tremendous  force. 
It  makes  a  lump  under  my  left  shoulder,  and 
my  arm  is  slightly  paralyzed. 

But  what  bothers  me  most  is  to  remain  in 
the  mud  for  eight  hours.  My  feet  are  en- 
72 


MOMENTS  OF  STORM 

tirely    frozen,    insensible.     I    put    the    shell 
splinter  awaj  —  in  my  pocket. 


With  a  little  cart,  every  evening,  he  car- 
ried a  cask  of  water  up  to  the  place  where 
the  battery  is.  A  shell  came  for  him  and 
killed  his  horse.  The  little  cart  is  shattered, 
the  horse  disembowelled.  The  water  slowly 
trickles  out  through  the  holes  in  the  cask. 
The  driver  has  fallen  into  the  road.  That 
was  three  days  ago.  No  one  dreams  of  pick- 
ing him  up. 


In  the  ravine  behind  us  an  infantryman  has 
fallen  face  downward  on  the  earth.  They 
lift  him  up.  His  face  is  black.  The  little 
cyclist  cries  out :     "  Oh  !  a  negro  !  " 

He  is  an  infantryman  of  the  Regi- 
ment. Three  rifles  about  him.  He  has  been 
hit,  wounded  in  the  head  and  chest.  He  had 
73 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

time  to  rid  himself  of  his  tent-cloth  and  gain. 
He  must  have  cried  out  in  the  night. 


Someone  says  to  the  captain : 

"  Do  not  go  out  just  at  this  moment. 
They  are  shelling  the  position  heavily. 
Wait." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  the  captain  replies ; 
**  we  've  got  to  relieve  our  comrades ;  their 
nerves  must  be  nearly  gone.  Come,  for- 
ward ! " 

He  gives  the  order.  The  company  starts. 
A  210  falls  in  the  midst  of  them.  There  are 
thirty  victims. 

Four  days  later  they  find  the  captain's 
head. 


The  Boche  prisoners  are  rotten  with  ver- 
min. I  took  part  in  an  examination.  Sev- 
eral of  them  who  were  very  young  said  that 

74 


MOMENTS  OF  STORM 

thej  would  have  surrendwed  long  ago  but  for 
the  "  old  fellows." 

An  infantryman  pulls  away  a  shoulder- 
strap  from  one  of  the  German  uniforms  and 
finds  under  it  a  swarm  of  lice.  He  flings 
it  on  the  ground,  swearing  in  disgust. 


Every  evening  at  the  moment  of  attack  we 
hear  the  agonizing  cries,  the  delirious  screams 
of  the  wounded  whom  we  cannot  go  to  relieve, 
so  terrible  is  the  fusillade  and  the  bombard- 
ment. 

Some  of  them,  this  evening,  realizing  that 
they  are  dying  out  there,  in  the  most  fright- 
ful position  between  the  two  banks  of  flame 
and  without  hope  of  succor,  were  seized  with 
a  violent  and  mortal  fury.  With  heavy 
hearts,  all  too  heavy,  we  heard  the  cries  of 
anguish,  the  recriminations  of  those  men  who 
had  given  themselves  to  the  uttermost  and 
whom  no  one  could  help.  ,  .  , 
75 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

**  Barbarians !  wretches !  to  let  us  perish 
so  !     Barbarians  1     Savages  !  " 

Always  these  words  come  back  to  us. 
Each  time,  there  is  some  man  who  is  shamed 
into  yielding  to  these  mournful  appeals. 
There  is  a  crackle  of  machine-guns.  He  is 
seen  no  more. 

Captain  L is  a  great  big  jolly  fellow, 

with  ruddy  cheeks  and  a  gay,  frank,  mis- 
chievous eye,  a  man  who  has  every  reason  to 
praise  the  good  things  of  life.  On  the  staff 
of  a  great  general.     Alwa3^s  in  luck! 

He  was  informed  yesterday  that  his 
*'  brother-in-law's  brother  "  had  disappeared, 
and  was  perhaps  dead.  Was  the  letter  he  re- 
ceived so  very  pitiable.'* 

It  is  a  misty  morning,  very  early.  Cap- 
tain L comes  out  to  the  first  line.     All 

at  once,  before  the  astounded  infantrymen, 
he  leaps  from  the  parapet,  falling  in  the 
grass.   .  .  . 

76 


MOMENTS  OF  STORM 

He  crawls  about,  this  gigantic  dandy,  for 
more  than  an  hour,  goes  up  to  every  corpse 
between  the  two  lines  and  turns  it  over,  seek- 
ing his  relative. 

He  comes  back,  his  clothes  soiled  with  blood 
and  mire,  his  eyes  wide  with  horror  and  pity. 
He  has  not  found  what  he  was  looking  for. 

Today  he  has  recovered  his  smile,  his 
happy,  confident  expression. 


Going  out  of  m}^  dugout  I  received  a  shock 
from  a  shell  that  brushed  my  head  as  it  went 
whining  by  and  scratched  my  left  ear.  .  .  . 
It  is  not  a  wound  I  But  for  several  days  I 
have  been  deaf  in  my  left  ear. 

In  order  to  receive  communications  over 
the  telephone,  I  hold  the  receiver  in  mj^  left 
hand  at  my  right  ear  and  write  with  my  right 
hand.  Good  God,  is  it  possible  that  I  might 
be  deaf  some  day,  that  I  might  no  longer  be 

77 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

able  to  hear,  to  recognize  my  dearest  friend, 
music,  mj  comfort  and  my  consolation? 

As  it  is,  I  pity  those  who  do  not  love  music, 
the  true  truth.  .  .  . 


Lunched    with    Captain    C .  .  .  .  We 

ate  in  a  tiny  orifice.  But  it  has  signs  up. 
They  are  changed  as  often  as  necessary. 

It  is  a  "  drawing-room,"  a  "  dining-room," 
a  "  smoking-room," —  even  a  "  bath-room  !  " 

The  cook  wears  at  his  throat  an  enormous 
iron  cross.  When  the  colonel  goes  to  dine 
there,  he  puts  on  a  Tam  o'  Shanter  and  a 
white  apron  with  a  decoration;  when  it  is 
the  commandant,  the  apron  and  the  decora- 
tion ;  and  when  it  comes  to  us,  he  modestly 
exhibits  the  iron  cross  alone.   .  .  . 

*      *     * 

Craftiness,  deceit,  organization, —  that  or- 
ganization upon  which   they   rely   so  much, 
—  logic  in  crime,  long  and  minute  prepara- 
78 


MOMENTS  OF  STORM 

tion  for  theft  and  assassination,  these  are  the 
essential  marks  of  madness. 

Are  we  fighting  an  army  of  lunatics  ? 

I  have  been  struck  by  these  coincidences : 
in  Artois,  the  enemy  occupied  a  wood  that 
bears  the  name,  La  Folie ;  in  Picardy,  on  the 
Somme,  our  adversaries  held  another  wood 
that  also  bears  that  prophetic  name,  La  Folie. 

Twice  we  have  attacked  the  Germans  at 
these  points.  They  were  assaults  of  unprec- 
edented immensity.  We,  a  people  of  modera- 
tion, of  perspicuity,  of  reason,  of  pity,  have 
sought  to  drive  them  out  of  those  forests  of 
La  Folie!  In  spite  of  prodigious  heroism, 
we  have  never  succeeded.  .  .  . 

A  Northern  writer  would  find  in  this 
the  elements  of  a  circumstantial  symbolism. 
Even  for  our  sceptical  spirits,  there  is  some- 
thing disturbing  about  it,  something  that  al- 
most looks  like  a  revelation. 
*     *     * 

War  inflames  the  passions.     This  elegant 
79 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

under-officer  is  a  gambler.  When  he  can  find 
no  partners,  he  plays  alone  in  his  dugout,  or 
in  the  ruined  houses.  The  inappeasable 
thirst  for  adventure.  .  .  .  Out  here,  there  is 
a  sharper  intensity  in  his  gestures  than  when 
he  used  to  play  in  his  sumptuous  haunts  of 
old.  I  fancy  he  must  have  flung  himself  into 
the  assault,  staked  his  life,  on  the  field,  like 
a  great  sum  of  money  on  the  green  table. 
And  he  has  lost  .  .  . 


I  have  at  last  succeeded  in  bringing  to- 
gether a  few  original  ideas,  a  few  images  that 
strike  me  as  fresh  and  true. 

I  have  begun  to  arrange  my  word  har- 
monies, to  assemble  my  future  phrases.   .  .   . 

But  a  single  banal  idea  of  a  comrade,  sev- 
eral banal  ideas.  .  .  .  Their  tumult  prevails. 
.  .  .  And  my  thoughts  fly  like  over-dressed 
dandies,  terrified.  ...  It  is  difficult  for  me 
to  find  them  again. 

80 


VIII 


A    BOMBARDMENT 


NOTHING  led  us  to  expect  this  bom- 
bardment of  our  position.  We  had 
already  received  a  respectable  number  of 
enemy  shells.  But  the  firing  was  uncertain, 
scattered. 

Very  early  this  misty  morning  a  few  salvos 
arrived,  at  regular  intervals.  An  enemy  avi- 
ator took  observations  over  us.  Then  the 
explosions  ceased.  The  day  was  clear  and 
auspicious. 

The  young  trees,  rejoicing  in  their  first 
leaves,  swayed  back  and  forth  in  the  breeze. 
Grave  and  agile,  the  gunners  loaded,  aimed 
and  fired  with  a  strong  methodical  assurance. 
The  lookout-man  announced  that  we  had  set 
on  fire  the  enemy  battery  which  was  our  ob- 
jective. And  our  men,  who  know  how  to 
81 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

keep  silence,  continued,  without  stirring,  to 
send  forth  their  devastating  projectiles. 


An  hour  after  noon  the  first  salvos  of  the 
bombardment  arrive.  The  medical  student 
rises  up,  in  the  midst  of  his  battery,  and  cries 
out: 

*'  Rapid  fire  I  For  one  shell  that  arrives, 
let  them  have  two !  " 

Before  even  one  enemy  projectile  has  burst, 
the  gunners  reply  to  the  fire  of  the  adversary. 

What  follows  is  a  vision  of  tragic  and  pas- 
sionate grandeur.  Shells  of  all  calibres  rain 
on  us:  105's,  130's,  ISO's,  210's.  Four 
men  are  wounded.  While  they  are  being  car- 
ried away  under  fire  to  the  Refuge,  a  stretch- 
er-bearer receives  a  splinter  of  shell  in  his 
arm ;  he  continues  to  carry  his  heavy  burden 
without  seeming  to  notice  that  he  has  been 
touched.  It  is  not  till  the  next  day  that  he 
deigns  to  have  his  arm  dressed. 
82 


A  BOMBARDMENT 

Another  wounded  man,  his  face  bitter  and 
bloody,  cries  out: 

"  All  right,  Boches !     Triple  the  dose ! " 

Their  souls  are  so  servile  over  there  that 
as  if  by  a  sort  of  magnetism  the  order  ap- 
pears to  have  reached  them.  .  .  .  And  the 
bombardment  is  redoubled  in  intensity. 

You  might  think  that  the  soil  was  a  sonor- 
ous wooden  floor  upon  which  great  clumsy 
giants  were  stamping  with  hobnailed  boots. 
You  might  think  these  great  giants  wished  to 
trample  under  foot  the  men,  the  shelters,  and 
our  fine,  swift  guns.  .  .  .  How  badly  aimed 
their  shots  are!  They  strike,  strike  always 
at  one  side.  Heavy,  stupid  anger.  Not  to 
be  reduced,  our  battery  continues  to  roar. 


Commandant   H has   come   down   to 

the  Major.     He  questions  the  wounded. 

R ,  the  mditre-pointeur,  replies : 

"  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  to  be  wounded 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

somewhere  else  than  at  my  post.  But  I  was 
struck  while  I  was  pointing  my  piece.  .  .  ." 

What  splendid  men !  The  personnel  of 
our  group,  slow,  simple  peasants  of  the  mid- 
lands, live  and  move  here  with  a  heroism  that 
is  wholly  free  from  emphasis  and  affecta- 
tion, familiar  and,  if  I  may  so  express  it, 
modest. 

We  return  to  our  major's  headquarters, 
fifty  meters  from  the  batteries.  The  bom- 
bardment thunders  on  without  ceasing. 

All  of  a  sudden  two  soldiers  dash  into  the 
shelter.  They  are  the  sappers  of  our  radio- 
telegraph post.  A  shell  of  high  calibre  has 
burst  against  their  shelter.  One  of  the  two 
men  is  deaf  and  stupefied.  I  pour  him  out  a 
glass.  He  drinks.  We  try  to  cheer  him  up. 
He  does  not  smile.  He  understands  noth- 
ing.    His  comrade  explains: 

"  You  see,  C had  a  very  delicate  hear- 
ing. ...  It  is  broken.  .  .  .  His  ear  was  so 
fine,  so  musical  that  he  received  and  distin- 
84 


A  BOMBARDMENT 

guished  the  most  delicate  sounds  of  the 
T.  S.  F.  ,  .  ,  It 's  a  pity." 

C looks  at  us  with  great  candid  eyes* 

"  Are  they  still  falling?  "  he  asks. 

We  all  reassure  him: 

*'  No,  no,  indeed." 

At  that  very  moment  two  projectiles  burst 
before  our  door.  Their  flames  are  long,  as 
long,  you  would  say,  as  the  hair  of  a 
comet.  .  •  • 


Evening  is  about  to  fall.  It  is  half  past 
six.  Our  cook  has  deserted  his  flimsy  cabin. 
We  do  not  know  where  he  has  taken  shelter ! 
Nevertheless,    we    must    have    dinner.     The 

young  Lieutenant  L and  I  decide  to  set 

the  table.     We  have  a  few  provisions. 

The  battle  has  begun  again,  violently,  at 
our  left.  We  hear  the  distant  cannonading, 
like  muffled  thunder.  .  .  . 

At  seven  o'clock  the  bombardment  ceases, 
85 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

The  light  that  we  kindle  is  flickering  and  dull. 
Our  retinas  are  still  dazzled  by  the  hard 
brightness  of  the  explosions. 


86 


IX 


THE    HOUNDS    OF    STEEL 

CAPTAIN  G ,  who  was  severely 
wounded  at  the  end  of  1914,  returned 
three  days  ago  to  take  command  of  his  bat- 
tery. 

With  careful  art  he  conceals  the  lameness 
of  his  right  leg  and  wears  with  such  a  happy, 
easy  grace  the  red  ribbon  of  his  Legion  of 
Honor  that  you  would  say  he  was  flaunting  a 
scarlet  rose  some  mistress  had  given  him  and 
that  the  perfume  of  it  produced  in  him  a  per- 
petual, airy  intoxication.  An  exquisite  type 
of  our  officer,  to  whom  Dumas  would  have 
ascribed  the  noblest  adventures. 

Three  hours  after  our  captain's  return,  the 
enemy  made  our  battery  their  target.  An 
aviator  flies  very  high  over  our  position  and 
87 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

regulates  by  wireless  the  fire  of  the  German 
guns. 

Captain  G gives  our  men  the  order 

to  take  to  cover. 

The  German  signal-men  get  to  work  rather 
quickly.  Their  range  is  five  hundred  meters. 
An  hour  after  they  have  taken  their  observa- 
tions, they  send  us  an  imposing  number  of 
big  shells.  One  of  our  under-officers  is  killed. 
He  did  not  want  to  take  refuge  in  his  shel- 
ter. Nonchalantly  leaning  against  a  tree, 
he  was  being  shaved  while  this  deafening  bom- 
bardment was  going  on,  by  an  improvised 
barber.  The  barber  himself  was  wounded,  as 
well  as  the  man  who  w^as  bringing  him  the 
water,  taking  his  time  about  it.  Our  shel- 
ters and  our  guns  are  intact.  A  neighbor- 
ing beet-field,  with  its  over-luxuriant  plumes, 
has  been  ravaged.   .   .   . 

Captain  G comes  up  to  me.     Angrj, 

sullen,  unrecognizable,  he  exclaims: 

"  It  's  preposterous !  And  the  General 
88 


THE  HOUNDS  OF  STEEL 

Staff  has  forbidden  me  to  reply  to  these 
scoundrels  !  We  know  the  exact  position  of 
the  battery  that  is  bombarding  us.  And  the 
conunandant  prevents  me  from  answering 
them  under  the  pretext  that  I  would  only  be 
showing  them  our  exact  position.  .  .  .  We 
must  give  those  fellows  the  impression  that 
they  have  annihilated  the  battery !  I  don't 
understand  these  new  methods  of  warfare  at 
all.  Do  you  remember  the  first  months  of 
the  campaign?  Ah!  replies  did  not  have  to 
wait  then.     How  much  better  we  fought  1 " 

"  We  fought  differently." 

"  Do  you  remember  that  Boche  artillery 
we  demolished  the  day  I  was  wounded.''  " 


And  we  call  up  those  victorious  hours  as 
if,  by  suggestion,  the  memory  of  them  might 
give  rise  to  a  new  triumph.   .   .  . 

We  have  taken  up  our  position  under  some 
stunted,  twisted  apple-trees,  the  branches  of 
89 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

which,  trailing  wearily  almost  to  the  ground, 
conceal  us  admirably.  The  battle  has  been 
one  of  the  wildest  violence.  But  the  day  was 
so  lovely  that  the  very  corpses,  which  we  have 
not  yet  been  able  to  gather  up,  seemed  to 
preserve  a  strange  happiness.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly the  captain  gives  the  command: 

"  Attention !  " 

Below  at  a  distance  of  two  kilometers,  we 
see  a  troop  of  bluish-green  dwarfs  creeping 
through  the  high  grass.  They  are  pushing 
some  dark  cannon  along  before  them,  obsti- 
nately, fantastically,  and  plunging  into  the 
forest.  Six  pieces  of  77  are  placed  in  this 
way  opposite  our  battery  at  the  edge  of  the 
wood. 

We  do  not  stir.  There  is  a  tense,  dis- 
,tressing  silence:  we  permit  them  to  install 
themselves.  The  captain  sends  us  his  orders 
on  little  bulletins.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  we  start 
a  thunderous  fire.  One  of  our  sections 
belches  out  its  explosive  shells  on  the  enemy 
90 


THE  HOUNDS  OF  STEEL 

material,  the  other  sends  forth  ball  shells  and 
prolongs  its  fire  on  the  fleeing  men.  .  .  . 
Amid  the  explosions  we  hear  distant  roarings. 
Our  men  laugh,  a  laugh  long  and  mad. 


Today  the  captain  has  recovered  his 
bright,  engaging  expression.  Early  this 
morning  we,  in  our  turn,  squared  accounts 
with  the  great  pieces  that  bombarded  us  three 
days  ago.  Two  of  our  aviators  observed  the 
eflPects  of  our  fire,  which  found  its  mark. 

The  bases  of  the  guns  are  sunk  deep  in  the 
earth,  to  which  the  pieces  are  so  tightly  af- 
fixed you  would  say  it  was  the  soil  itself,  our 
soil  of  France,  that  was  discharging  upon 
the  enemy,  through  these  long  grey  tubes,  the 
avenging  flame  and  death.  The  gunners 
have  lived  so  long  with  their  cannon  that 
they  have  come  to  have  the  same  vibrant 
grace;  they  are  like  rapid  automatics,  sup- 
ple and  precise.  The  gestures  of  the  men 
91 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

who  charge  the  guns  have  the  violent  and  at 
the  same  time  yielding  elasticity  of  the  pieces 
themselves,  recoihng  on  their  sliding  runners. 
A  fixed  unity  of  many  harmonious  organs. 

The  captain  says  to  me: 

"  I  was  wrong  in  my  recriminations  on  the 
day  of  my  arrival.  I  understand  now  that 
mask  of  persevering  bitterness  this  long  war 
has  fixed  on  the  faces  of  our  soldiers,  their 
patient  efforts,  their  slow  replies. 

"  We  believed,  we  who  fought  during  the 
first  months  of  the  campaign,  that  we  pre- 
sented the  loftiest  spectacles  of  human  sacri- 
fice. It  was  not  so.  Today  is  the  time  when 
it  is  beautiful  to  fight  and  to  dare.  After 
many  months  of  war  great  souls  alone  are  not 
weary.  Those  in  whom  the  fury  lasts  and 
who  unite  the  cunning  of  the  present  with 
the  audacity  of  the  past  are  the  first  among 
men.  The  poignant  realit}'  that  has  for  so 
long  scorched  their  ejes  does  not  discourage 
their  glorious  ambition.  One  stands  as- 
92 


THE  HOUNDS  OF  STEEL 

tounded  before  this  abnegation  that  grows 
ever  keener,  before  this  tenacious  heroism 
that  permits  no  impairment  of  a  conscience 
chilled  by  so  many  visions  of  ferocity  and 
death.  ,  .  .  Of  a  race  like  ours  we  can  hope 
everything." 

The  battery  has  been  silenced.  The  gun- 
ners have  gone  to  their  shelter.  The  captain 
caresses  with  his  gloved  hand  the  slender 
glowing  spines  of  our  cannon,  that  perpetu- 
ally hold  out  their  smoking  muzzles  toward 
the  enemy.  Splendid  huntsman,  stroking  his 
hounds  of  steel,  forever  leashed. 


93 


LOVE 


OUR    FRIEND    MUSIC 

OUR  corps  has  been  off  duty  now  for  a 
fortnight,  in  a  sunny  village  the  soft 
outlines  of  which  rise  peacefully  against  the 
quivering  heart  of  a  forest. 

The  units  impaired  in  the  fighting  have 
already  been  reconstituted  and  stoutly  re- 
newed. Misery  and  hardship  are  forgotten. 
A  moist,  happy  smile  lingers  in  the  corners 
of  our  pale  mouths. 

We  look  at  one  another  with  a  new  joy. 
We  admire  one  another.  We  recognize  one 
another  again.  We  love  one  another.  Ten 
times  a  day  we  grasp  the  hands  of  comrades 
found  again.  My  friends,  you  have  touch- 
ing gentlenesses,  unexpected  generosities,  a 
bright,  childlike  gaiety  that  we  never  ex- 
97 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

pected  down  there  in  those  regions  of  mad- 
ness and  death. 

For  to  be  a  soldier  is  to  be  a  naked  blade. 
It  means  to  strip  oneself  of  illusions,  to  stifle 
one's  memories.  It  means  to  keep  oneself 
single  and  strong  for  a  sacred  duty,  for  a 
sacrifice  bitterly  accepted.  It  is  to  make 
oneself  dry,  forceful,  fit,  a  fierce  and  solitary 
soul  from  which  the  charms  and  amenities, 
the  arts  and  all  the  radiant  and  peaceful 
graces  of  human  society  have  ebbed  away. 

In  a  sudden,  confused  vision  I  recall  the 
hard,  sharp  violence  of  all  our  actions  during 
that  long  turmoil.   .   .   .  We  spent  fifty-seven 

days  just  north  of  V ,  while  the  battle 

raged.  And  during  that  time  I  did  not  hear 
a  single  one  of  our  men  hum  a  refrain  or 
whistle.  Now  and  again  they  laughed  in  the 
midst  of  the  uproar,  passing  back  and  forth 
a  few  gay  or  mischievous  remarks.  They 
never  sang. 

But  here,  in  this  verdant  nook  where  the 
98 


OUR  FRIEND  MUSIC 

rumbling  of  the  guns  is  hushed  in  the  dis- 
tance, we  have  once  more  found  our  dear 
forsaken  friend,  music. 

On  an  old,  worn-out  piano  our  command- 
ant has  been  playing  Cesar  Franck,  Bizet  and 
Mozart. 

Tomorrow,  in  the  neighboring  village,  our 

comrades  of  the  Regiment  of  infantry 

are  to  give  a  recital  of  chamber  music. 

The  radiant  and  mysterious  face  of  music 
•will  bend  for  quite  a  long  while  over  our 
hearts. 


We  have  come  on  foot,  taking  our  time, 
by  the  white,  winding  road.  But  we  are  an 
hour  early.     We  wait  outside  the  door. 

The  concert  is  to  take  place  in  the  great 
grey  hall  of  the  primary  school.  A  back- 
scene  has  been  put  up  and  a  naive  decora- 
tion painted  on  it.  The  programme  is  well- 
chosen  :  Beethoven's  "  Tenth  Quartette," 
99 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Cesar  Franck's  "  Sonata  "  for  piano  and  vio- 
lin, the  "  Poem  "  of  our  great  sorrowful 
friend  Gabriel  Dupont.  The  audience  is  an 
original  one,  variegated  and  throbbingly  ex- 
pectant: the   colonel   of   the  Infantry 

and  his  staff;  a  commandant  of  sharpshoot- 
ers, with  a  thin,  drawn  face,  crowned  with  a 
scarlet  fez ;  some  infantry  officers,  sad  and 
reserved ;  troopers  bearing  themselves  ele- 
gantly;  black  soldiers  from  the  Antilles  and 
Reunion,  with  noble  carriage  and  eyes 
drowned  with  nostalgia ;  a  few  artillerymen, 
several  doctors  and,  finally,  a  number  of  foot- 
soldiers,  young  and  old,  crowded  together  on 
the  piled  benches.  Some  have  clambered  up 
on  the  ledge  of  the  immense  bay,  and  their 
opaque,  pathetic  silhouettes  stand  out 
against  the  bluish  light  of  the  windows  like 
the  figures  of  martyrs  on  the  stained  glass 
of  a  church. 

The   opening   measures   of   the   Beethoven 
Quartette  rise  up  amid  the  intent  silence,  the 
100 


OUR  FRIEND  MUSIC 

heavy  meditation  of  the  subdued  gathering. 
Impeccable  and  fervent  is  the  execution  of 
our  soldier  artists,  who  seem  constrained  in 
their  tight,  worn,  faded  uniforms.  But  we 
cease  to  think  of  the  long  arms  of  these  fas- 
cinating violinists,  cramped  in  their  abbre- 
viated sleeves.  As  they  develop,  the  phases, 
charged  with  serenity  and  love,  weaving  their 
learned  harmonies,  opposing  their  scintillant 
fluctuations,  lose  and  find  themselves  again 
in  faithful  divergence.  A  vast  tide  of  sweet- 
ness submerges  the  souls  of  all.  Our  eyes 
shine  with  the  splendor  of  a  dawn  that  is 
glimpsed,  of  a  presentiment  of  glorious  hours 
approaching.  .   .  . 

Comes  a  brief  interval,  during  which  Lieu- 
tenant P ,  enraptured,  says  to  me: 

"  It  's  understood,  we  shall  get  back  Al- 
sace-Lorraine." 

"  But  I  demand  also  that  we  annex  .  .  . 
Beethoven." 

"  And  Wagner.?  "  someone  asks. 
101 


THE  FLAxME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

"  Ah,  no  1  He  's  too  German.  .  .  ." 
The  beloved  voice  of  the  violin  soars  up- 
ward again  above  the  rippling  and  tinkling 
of  the  piano.  Franck's  "  Sonata,"  grave 
and  simple,  wonderful  in  its  plenitude,  muf- 
fled, flowing,  swelling,  Hke  limpid  water  gush- 
ing out  of  the  earth.  We  are  attuned  to 
this  true,  pure  harmony.  Everything  that 
is  best  in  us  and  sane  rises  up  within  us,  un- 
folds itself  and  sings  with  this  candid  melody. 
The  men  who  are  listening  now  have  retaken 
the  Fort  of  Douaumont.  They  have  seen  so 
many  blood-stained  brothers  fall!  They 
have  lived  on  an  ocean  of  murder  and  feroc- 
ity!  And  behold,  they  are  like  a  crowd  of 
innocent  children.  .  .  . 

At  last  we  hear  the  romantic  modulations, 
so  languishing,  so  tormented,  of  Gabriel  Du- 
pont's  "  Poem."  Dear,  gentle  Gabriel,  so 
swiftly  ravished  from  our  alBPection,  how 
troubled  you  would  be  if  you  could  see  us 
again  grouped  about  your  work,  the  beauty 
102 


OUR  FRIEND  MUSIC 

of  which  survives  your  fragility !  You  ef- 
face from  the  countenances  of  our  men  that 
sullen  resignation,  that  obstinate  weariness, 
that  hopeless  funereal  abstraction.  We  bless 
you,  in  your  still  fresh  grave,  for  bringing  us 
tonight  the  consoling  grace  of  your  har- 
monious melodies,  so  supple  and  so  fragrant, 
which  take  hold  of  us  like  arms  that  let  fall 
a  burden  of  blossoms  before  they  embrace  us. 

We  set  out  again  for  our  cantonment, 
happy,  comforted,  like  pilgrims  who  have 
been  pardoned,  wrapped  in  thought.  A  long 
swift  silhouette  is  moving  on  the  road.  .  .  . 

It    is    young   Lieutenant    L ,    anxiously 

running  to  meet  me : 

*'  Quick,  quick,  old  fellow !  We  have  re- 
ceived the  order  to  move  tonight.  Hurry 
and  buckle  on  your  canteen.  You  precede 
the  column.  I  have  told  your  orderly  to 
saddle  your  horse  for  two  o'clock.  .  .  ." 

I  hasten  my  preparations.  My  cloak,  my 
field-glass,  my  map-case,  my  revolver,  in  the 
103 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

flickering    light    of    a     candle.   .   .   .  L — 


very  kindly  helps  me  to  pack  up  my  traps. 
I  try  to  get  an  hour's  sleep.  ...  It  is  al- 
ready time  for  me  to  go.  ...  I  leap  on  my 
horse  .  .  .  those  wonderful  sounds  still  ring 
in  my  ears.  .  .  .  Then  everytliing  is  extin- 
guished. My  heart  is  dry,  my  head  empty  of 
memories.  Farewell,  soft,  tender  music ! 
But  I  experience  a  confused  uneasiness,  a 
slight  sense  of  shame !  It  is  as  if  I  had  left 
a  friend  sleeping  in  the  village,  a  friend  I 
had  not  awakened  to  bid  good-bye.  ...  I 
am  afraid  of  being  behind  time.     We  trot  out 

into  the  cold  wind  of  night. 
*     *     * 

The  secret,  impassioned  language  of  music 
has  such  nobility,  such  mysterious  magna- 
nimity, that  it  alone  would  be  able  to  trans- 
late for  future  ages  the  unknown  grandeur 
of  our  soldiers'  sacrifices,  the  whole  violent 
scene  that  haunts  our  eyes. 

But  what  musician  will  interpret  the  re- 
104 


OUR  FRIEND  MUSIC 

nunciation,  the  fierce  resignation  of  our  men, 
the  loftiness  of  their  mission,  of  which  thej 
are  themselves  ignorant,  the  delirium  that 
persists  in  them,  their  courage,  humble  or 
elated,  their  willing  or  unavoidable  disdain  of 
death  and  happiness? 

Will  my  sagacious  friend  Vuillermoz  point 
out  to  us  just  the  right  composer  for  this 
task? 

Everything  goes  to  prove  that  this  musi- 
cian will  have  to  be  very  modern,  of  advanced 
and  daring  tendencies.  He  must  renounce 
the  out-of-date  formula  for  heroism  that  has 
prevailed  in  the  past.  No  more  brass  instru- 
ments, no  joyous,  well-cadenced  hymns. 
Rather  a  heavy  chant,  slow,  resolute,  dim, 
with  grave  harmonies,  patient,  broken,  dis- 
parate, spacious  at  one  moment,  dwindling 
the  next. 

Who  will  render  that  air  beaten  out  by  the 
brutal  sonorities,  the  prolonged  uproar  of  the 
cannon,  the  thin  whine  of  the  balls  like  that 
105 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

of  the  mandolin,  the  repeated,  balanced  echo 
of  the  shells  that  spring  across  the  valley, 
the  rumbling  of  the  motors,  and  then  those 
eddying,  stifled  harmonies,  occasionally  that 
brief,  mortal  silence  amid  the  gasping  of  men 
who  are  bidding  farewell  to  life?  .  .  .  Who, 
finally,  can  relate  the  vibrant,  chaotic  disor- 
der of  a  battle,  this  ending  of  the  world  — 
or  this  beginning  —  that  is  all  about  us,  these 
primeval  horrors  amid  the  roaring  of  the 
heavy  guns  that  recall  the  monsters  of  pre- 
historic time,  the  mammoths  and  the  dino- 
saurs? Who  will  dare  to  recall,  in  a  voice 
that  is  true,  any  episode  of  this  cosmic  tur- 
moil? 


106 


XI 

TKANSPARENT    SOULS 

THE  world  ascribes  to  the  people  of 
France  an  agitation  in  life  and  in  lan- 
guage that  is  no  longer  borne  out  by  the  ob- 
servation of  today.  Our  men  love  silence. 
They  have  been  used  to  living  together  so 
long  and  the  events  they  witness  are  so  over- 
whelming that  perhaps  they  consider  words 
useless  and  ideas  vain. 

They  speak  little.  They  think  little ;  they 
try  even  not  to  think  any  longer  of  anything. 
I  have  often  seen  proofs  of  this  stagnation  of 
the  spirit  and  the  imagination  in  the  bright- 
est and  most  intelligent  souls.  It  undoubt- 
edly results  from  sheer  weariness  of  the  un- 
derstanding, the  sadness  of  feeling  oneself  a 
stranger  to  the  joys  of  old. 
107 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

But  there  is  perhaps  another  explanation 
of  it.  A  man  only  knows  his  place  in  the 
world  through  the  contrasts  and  relations 
that  he  marks  and  measures  about  him.  A 
life  is  rich  and  significant  in  proportion  to 
the  diverse  and  extended  affinities  and  reac- 
tions which  it  discerns. 

How  can  a  soldier  establish  these  corre- 
spondences and  these  disparities  that  would 
augment  and  determine  his  own  thought.^ 
However  far  his  eye  ranges  over  these  re- 
stricted spaces,  he  can  see  nothing  but  war, 
nothing  but  soldiers  who  act  and  think  just 
as  he  does.  And  at  the  extremity  of  this 
stifling  horizon,  death.  .  .  .  Consciousness 
withers  and  forsakes  him.  What  remains  is 
nothing  but  a  prescribed  personality,  re- 
duced to  a  tame  and  strict  regimen.  His 
dull  memory  becomes  torpid.  There  is  noth- 
ing he  can  do.  Everything  in  his  soul  Is 
transparent  and  without  depth,  scentless,  do- 
108 


TRANSPARENT  SOULS 

cile,  like  water  diffused  over  an  immense 
space.  .  .  .  Tl:ke  soldier  has  slipped  into  his 
mental  uniform. 


109 


XII 

IN    THE    EUINS    OF    THE    ABBEY 

To  Colonel  G.  Huin. 

THIS  Sabbath  morning  is  calm  and  veiled 
like  a  convalescent.  The  air  is  still 
sharp,  the  wind  keen.  But  already  the 
spring  appears,  furtively,  through  the  out- 
worn scenery  of  winter.  Some  inexpressible 
feeling  of  frankness  and  goodness  wells  up  in 
us.     For  an  hour  the  struggle  is  forgotten. 

We  set  out  for  mass.  It  is  to  be  said  in  a 
subterranean  chapel.  The  blinking  lights  of 
the  acetylene  lamps  pierce  the  semi-darkness 
of  the  corridors.  Deep,  tortuous  passages 
have  been  hewed  out  of  the  stone  by  our 
unknown  ancestors. 

After  a  stumbling  journey  of  ten  minutes 
through  this  cavernous  obscurity,  we  reach 
110 


IN  THE  RUINS  OF  THE  ABBEY 

a  sort  of  crossing  where  an  altar  rises, 
adorned  with  iv j  and  branches  of  fir :  clever, 
patient  hands  have  cut  it  out  of  the  rock.  A 
few  squat  pillars,  rudely  decorated,  labor- 
iously raise  their  masses  like  formless  carya- 
tids. 

Already,  the  chaplain  of  infantry,  in  a 
grave,  sad  voice,  has  begun  to  roll  out  the 
sacred  litanies,  which  echo,  scarcely  audible, 
down  the  reverberating  caverns. 

Our  men  have  grouped  themselves  at  the 
rear.  Their  fierce,  emaciated  faces  have  lost 
their  expression  of  bitterness.  Here  and 
there,  the  bluish  gleam  of  the  lamps  lights 
up  a  wrinkled  forehead,  a  pair  of  eyes  moist 
or  burning  under  shaggy  brows,  a  mouth 
naively  open.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  men  are  tell- 
ing their  rosaries ;  we  hear  the  light  click  of 
the  beads.  The  strong  and  the  brave  have 
laid  aside  their  violence. 

The  medical  student  whispers  to  me  shyly : 

"  You  might  think  we  were  in  the  Musee 
111 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Grevin,    old    fellow.   .   .   .     The    first    Chris- 
tians in  the  catacombs.   .   .   .*' 

Well  may  that  vision  disturb  our  memory. 
The  short,  embossed  columns  that  uphold 
the  stone  roof  or  brace  the  low,  black  arches 
suggest  the  pilasters  of  the  crypts  of  some 
fabulous  palace  of  Babylon  or  Nineveh.  .  .  . 
Such  nobility  has  the  war  given  to  our  men 
that  in  their  postures  I  see  again  the  im- 
perturbable rhythm  of  the  warriors  of  the 
Assyrian  bas-reliefs.  .   .  . 

Opposite,  those  peasants,  workingmen  and 
poor  folk  have  grouped  themselves  by  in- 
stinct with  an  infallible  harmony.  What 
twilight  Veronese,  dimming  the  brilliance  of 
his  palette,  will  paint  this  new  evangelic  epi- 
sode in  its  strange,  majestic  ensemble .'^ 

I  know  of  nothing  more  touching  than  the 
spectacle  of  these  hardy,  hairy  fellows  whose 
way  lies  through  every  sort  of  horror  and 
atrocity,  suddenly  becoming  humble  and  sub- 
missive as  if  they  were  priests. 
112 


IN  THE  RUINS  OF  THE  ABBEY 

There  they  pray,  lost  in  adoration,  over- 
whelmed with  sacred  melancholy.  With  ges- 
tures that  are  generous  and  pathetic  they 
offer  up  their  weary  souls,  freed  from  every 
impurity. 

Have  pity,  O  God,  on  them ;  have  pity  on 
me.  .  .  .  Our  sorrows  and  our  miseries  seem 
to  heap  themselves  up  before  the  altar  and 
take  fire  there,  and  when  the  divine  office  is 
finished,  we  withdraw,  renewed  and  healed  by 
the  vital  and  mysterious  flame. 


We  quit  the  dim,  silent  crypt  and  remount 
to  the  daylight. 

It  seems  as  if  we  had  passed  to  another 
planet.  Shells  are  bursting  down  there  with 
the  hollow  noise  of  immense  empty  casks,  vio- 
lently struck.  Ammunition-wagons  rattle 
by  and  descend  the  tortuous  broken  roads, 
dragged  along  at  a  gallop.  Files  of  infan- 
try disappear  in  the  winding  trenches.  And 
113 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

below,  in  an  improvised  graveyard,  some  sol- 
diers are  digging  two  ditches  for  those  artil- 
lerymen whose  blood-stained  corpses  have 
been  covered  over  with  tent-cloths. 

Commandant    H has    invited    me    to 

lunch.  He  is  installed  in  an  abandoned 
abbey,  the  ancient  and  venerable  walls  of 
which  have  been  riddled,  cracked,  ravaged 
by  the  enemy  guns.  The  chapter-room 
alone  remains  intact.  It  is  there  the  table 
is  laid. 

The  village,  the  beauty  of  which  is  still  so 
touching,  sleeps  on  a  height.  The  Germans 
have  unchained  their  fury  against  the  lovely- 
church  whose  great  towers,  every  day  bom- 
barded, still  dominate  the  horizon.  These 
steep  streets  blocked  with  the  ruins  of  an- 
cient houses,  these  ravaged  sanctuaries, 
speak  to  the  soul  and  fill  it  with  vanished 
biblical  images. 

A  little  more  and  one  might  think  oneself 


IN  THE  RUINS  OF  THE  ABBEY 

in  some  Jerusalem  besieged  bj  the  barbar- 
ians. 

The  meal  is  simple.     There  are  only  three 

of   us :   the    commandant,    his    aide,    A , 

and  I.  The  major  speaks  to  us  of  the  des- 
tinies of  our  country. 

Suddenly  a  deafening  uproar  makes  the 
walls  tremble.  The  cook,  with  the  helmet 
of  an  English  soldier  on  his  head,  dashes  into 
"the  room. 

"  My  commandant,"  he  cries,  "  two  great 
shells  have  just  fallen  beside  my  kitchen  and 
the  stove  with  the  fritters  has  vanished.  .  .  ." 

Commandant     H makes     no     sign. 

Calmly,  gravely,  slowly,  he  says : 

"  Well !  Why  do  you  wait  to  bring  in  the 
cheese  ?  " 

And  he  apologizes  for  offering  me  so  fru- 
gal a  luncheon. 


115 


XIII 


AT    DAYBREAK 


THERE  is  a  thin  tinkle  at  the  telephone, 
and  we  dash  to  the  instrument.  A  far- 
away voice  informs  us  briefly:  "  The  enemy 
is  attacking.      Start  tlie  barrage  fire." 

Immediately,  all  the  gunners  are  at  their 
posts.  The  night  is  illumined  by  dazzling 
whirlwinds  of  flame  rolling  over  the  indistinct 
crests  of  the  landscape.  White,  green  and 
red  rockets  flash  across  the  sky  and  burst 
into  bright,  many-colored  jets.  The  guns 
vomit  their  fire  and,  as  they  recoil  on  the  bat- 
tery, resemble  enfuriated  gorgons,  insatiable, 
drunken.  Detonations  mingle  with  explo- 
sions. It  is  like  a  mad  gallop  of  heavy  mon- 
sters over  the  vast,  resounding  levels.  Innu- 
116 


AT  DAYBREAK 

merable  enemy  shells  split  the  air  with  their 
whistling,  hissing  screams,  their  long  plain- 
tive cries,  their  dull  roars,  their  deafening 
crepitation. 

With  my  feet  half-frozen  and  plunged  in 
the  heavy,  sticky  mud,  I  transmit  the  orders 
of.  the  captain,  who  presently  gives  the  com- 
mand : 

"  Slacken  fire  1  The  attack  is  re- 
pulsed. ..." 

After  this,  we  only  respond  to  the  shots 
we  receive.  .  .  .  Till  morning  we  continue  to 
fire. 


Little  by  little  the  darkness  brightens.  A 
diffused  ashy  light  like  the  beginning  of  the 
world  begins  to  spread  over  the  atmosphere. 
A  thin  carpet  of  snow  lies  over  the  cloven 
earth,  and  the  deep  hollows  are  filled  with 
mist  and  smoke.  I  glance  at  our  men,  at 
their  harsh,  wild  faces,  blue  with  cold  and 
117 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

hollow  with  fatigue.  Not  one  softening 
thought.  Their  hearts  are  closed  to  mem- 
ory. 

It  is  a  company  of  strange  automata  I 
have  about  me,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  fallen 
into  some  nameless  planet  such  &s  Wells  has 
imagined.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  like  this  for  two  months.  Not 
for  a  single  moment  has  the  intensity  of  the 
tattle  abated.  Day  and  night  the  struggle 
goes  on  without  respite. 

Our  men  are  wonderful  in  their  tenacity 
and  courage.  Never  before  has  such  pure, 
"vehement  energy  coursed  through  French 
veins.  A  human  wall,  stronger  than  stone, 
stronger  than  fire,  bars  the  path  of  the  in- 
Tader.  These  soldiers,  dressed  in  horizon 
blue,  striped  with  yellowish  mud,  are  the  sky 
and  the  soil  of  France  in  action.  The  ani- 
mated earth  and  the  airy  azure  of  the  moth- 
erland have  raised  up  in  their  image  these 
118 


AT  DAYBREAK 

unconquerable  defenders  made  of  a  fragment 
of  our  sod  and  a  fragment  of  our  firmament. 


The  landscape  gently  rises  and  casts  off 
the  veils  of  mist.  The  bare  summits  with 
their  skeleton  trees  rise  above  the  smoky 
valleys.  Is  it  true  that  the  spring  began  a 
whole  month  ago?  Here  no  green  thing 
shoots  forth  and  the  buds  refuse  to  break  on 
the  blasted  branches.  Everything  still  pre- 
serves the  severe,  somnolent  aspect  of  winter. 
One  thinks  of  the  disconsolate  verse  of  Bau- 
delaire : 

Le  printemps  adorable  a  perdu  son  odeur !  .  .  . 

At  our  left,  the  barracks  in  the  town  is  on 
fire.  The  rising  flames  besplash  the  misty 
horizon.  One  might  think  it  a  vast  Persian 
carpet,  fringed  with  grey,  tossing  in  the 
wind.  .  .  . 

119 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

"  My  dear  lieutenant,  you  are  not 
wounded?  " 

It  is  G ,  chief  of  the  second  gun,  who 

throws  himself  upon  me.  I  have  received  on 
my  left  shoulder  a  blow  like  that  of  a  pick- 
axe. I  touch  myself.  It  is  nothing.  My 
clothes  have  acted  as  a  buffer ;  the  splinter 
has  rebounded  from  the  material  without 
passing  through. 

But  another  shell  bursts  in  front  of  the 
fourth  piece.  A  cry,  INIurmurs.  Five  of 
our  men  are  wounded.  No  one  killed.  The 
captain  runs  up.  Gravely  he  examines  the 
little  bleeding  wounds.  "  Nothing  serious/' 
declares  the  ambulance  orderly. 

Swiftly  they  dress  the  injured  men.  And 
detaching  themselves  from  the  heroic  light  of 
morning,  a  few  bent  and  shadowy  silhouettes 
move  away  from  the  oncoming  dawn.  .  .  . 


120 


XIV 

GLEAMS    IN    THE    SHADOW 

IS  it  possible  that  the  image  of  a  son,  a 
father,  a  lover  can  live  on  so  intensely  in 
the  heart  of  women  who  remain  behind? 
How  many  we  see  wandering,  haggard,  alien 
everywhere,  in  whom  those  the  war  has  en- 
tombed rise  again  to  life!  .  .  .  Great  family 
of  the  hallucinated,  of  over-febrile  sensibili- 
ties, double  souls,  doubly  unhappy,  fierce 
ones  who  insist  on  retrieving  from  death  a 
strangely  living  memory,  will  the  world  keep 
for  you,  during  the  years  that  are  to  follow, 
the  fervent  pity  it  owes  you?  Ah,  how  it 
makes  us  long  not  to  die  out  here  when  we 
think  of  you.  .  .  .  But  we  forget  you,  you 
who  do  not  forget. 


121 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Living  amid  this  daily  returning  horror, 
one  acquires  a  quivering  sensitiveness,  an  un- 
dreamed of  modesty  of  feeHng  that  covers  an 
animal-like  simplicity. 


On  bad  days  there  steals  over  us  grad- 
ually a  weary  stupefaction,  a  dull  indiffer- 
ence to  the  quality  and  shapes  of  the  things 
about  us.  Our  consciousness  is  scattered,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  atmosphere,  and  we  feel  a  con- 
fused horizon  disclosing  itself;  vistas  of  the 
future  open  out  before  our  dull  gaze.  .  .  . 
We  are  less  moved  by  the  precise  aspect  of 
things  and  people  than  by  something  inde- 
scribable that  vibrates  beneath  them,  by  the 
mystery  that  enwraps  them  and  illumines 
them,  by  their  psychic  prolongation,  as  a 
philosopher  might  say.  .  .  .  We  no  longer 
distinguish  the  past,  or  the  present  either. 
Our  souls  strain  toward  the  future.  It  may 
122 


GLEAMS  IN  THE  SHADOW 

be  that  a  little  of  the  light  of  truth  pene- 
trates us.  .   .  . 

*      *     * 

My  best  friend  here  is  Lieutenant  L , 


who  is  very  young.  Under  his  air  of  the 
little  "  taupin "  he  conceals  the  soul  of  a 
logician,  as  cold,  as  old  as  the  world.  He 
has  keen,  keen  eyes,  eyes  which,  with  a  teas- 
ing, disconcerting  swiftness,  can  reveal  for 
you  a  man's  secrets.  And  I  sa}^  nothing  of 
the  way  he  has,  truly  a  fine  art,  of  touching 
the  best-hidden  wounds  1  Because  I  know 
his  real  fineness,  he  pleases  me  least  when  he 
likes  to  seem  supercilious.  People  think  he 
is  cruel.  He  works  well  and  hard.  He  dis- 
trusts his  quick  sensitiveness  as  if  it  were  an 
enemy.  In  tragic  hours  I  have  known  him  to 
reveal  an  exquisite,  devoted  soul.  Let  me 
thank  him  for  it  here.  One  day,  when  he  was 
wounded  in  the  head,  I  realized  that  I  loved 
him  like  a  brother. 

*     *     * 

123 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

The  little  clean-shaven  sergeant,  whom  the 
division  has  sent  me  for  a  signal-man,  is  talk- 
ative and  has  an  air  of  elegance  and  author- 
ity. From  among  his  many  observations, 
delivered  with  a  smiling  scepticism,  I  recall 
these  words: 

"  We  don't  sufficiently  appreciate  that 
modern  war  is,  above  everything,  a  theatrical 
performance." 

The  Germans  seem  to  understand  this, 
they  who  in  their  official  communiques  entitle 
their  fronts, — "  Western  theatre,"  "  East- 
ern theatre."  .  .  .  Their  kaiser  seems  to  me 
a  veritable  stage  manager  —  of  a  tragic 
stage,  of  course.  .  .  .  To  astound  the  adver- 
sary, to  stupefy  him  with  emotion  and  terror, 
that  is  the  idea.  Speaking  quite  sincerely, 
when  I  mounted  the  parapet  at  the  head  of 
my  section  during  the  last  attacks,  I  had  the 
impression  of  finding  myself  on  an  immense 
platform  with  scenery.  .  .  .  Our  cries,  the 
explosions  of  our  grenades  upset  the  enemy 


GLEAMS  IN  THE  SHADOW 

more  than  the  losses  we  inflicted  on  them. 
We  do  not  take  sufficient  advantage  of  our 
grenades,  which  burst  with  a  redoubtable 
noise.  We  ought  to  use  them  and  the  shells 
alone.  In  advancing,  we  should  astound  the 
enemy  with  a  horrifying  uproar.  ...  It  is 
an  odd  thing,  in  battle  one  assumes  without 
effort  and  as  if  by  instinct  the  exaggerated 
poses  of  artless  tragedians.  ...  It  is  the 
theatre,  lieutenant !  —  the  Shakespearian 
theatre,  my  boy,  where  all  the  heroes  of  the 
piece  are  killed  at  the  denouement,  the  "  thea- 
tre of  life,"  where  people  die.  ... 


125 


DEATH 


XV 


FLASHES    OF    THE    SWORD 

QUARTER-MASTER  LEBEL  has  been 
killed,  the  first  of  our  unit.  A  rough 
face,  heavy,  blue  eyes,  a  long  blond  mous- 
tache. A  joker,  a  jolly  fellow,  always  talk- 
ing to  the  peasants.  And  also,  I  believe, 
timid.  Thirty-nine  years  old.  Married  to 
a  very  pretty  woman,  he  told  me  with  satis- 
faction. Hard  with  the  men,  exacting  in 
matters  of  duty.  A  good  head  gunner. 
Haughty  or  listless  in  the  presence  of  his 
superiors,  who  never  had  very  much  sympa- 
thy for  him. 

On  May  14th,  in  the  evening,  after  having 
been  thrown  with  him  daily  for  a  month  and 
a  half,  I  was  able  to  catch  a  brief  glimpse  of 
129 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

his  soul.  ...  It  was  raining.  A  sombre 
sky.  Slipping  into  the  tent  I  found  him 
weeping.  He  was  writing  a  letter.  .  .  . 
And  people  called  him  harsh  and  hard- 
hearted. 

"  This  mournful  war ! "  he  murmured. 
"  My  father  is  dying  and  I  cannot  go  and  see 
him  again.  ...  If  I  could  only  embrace  him 
once  more.   .   .   ." 

Just  then  his  team  arrived.  Bruskly,  with 
the  back  of  his  hand,  he  brushed  away  his 
tears.  He  seized  the  mallet,  drove  in  the 
stakes  energetically,  stretched  the  ropes,  in- 
spected the  horses'  feed. 

The  next  day  Lebel  was  to  go  with  me,  at 
half  past  two  in  the  morning,  to  the  new  posi- 
tion of  our  battery.  It  was  still  dark  when 
we  set  out.  I  was  to  be  on  dut}^  at  the 
observation  post.  I  left  him  near  the  guns, 
sad,  his  shoulders  drooping. 

At  nine  o'clock  I  left  the  observation  post. 
The  enemy  had  discovered  the  emplacement 
130 


FLASHES  OF  THE  SWORD 

of  the  battery.  They  were  bombarding  us. 
The  great  shells  were  bursting  all  about. 
The  fire  of  the  battery  was  on  the  point  of 
recommencing:  a  single  gun  was  going  to 
shoot.  But  the  captain,  an  old  man,  fresh 
from  the  clearing-station  and  thoroughly  of- 
fensive alike  in  his  sentiments,  his  manners, 
and  his  expression,  orders  a  general  muster.. 
Lebel  comes  out  of  his  burrow.  At  that  very 
moment,  an  enemy  shell  falls  on  the  shelter 
where  the  ammunition  is,  throws  everything 
into  disorder,  bursts,  and  flings  our  own  pro- 
jectiles far  and  wide.  Lebel  falls,  his  breast 
and  abdomen  torn,  one  arm  blown  off.  They 
carry  him  away.  His  mournful  eyes  are 
heavy  with  reproaches. 

He  tries  to  speak,  without  succeeding,  and 
dies.  ...  A  minute  after,  the  third  gun  fires. 
All  our  men  are  at  their  posts. 


Quarter-master    Carriat    commanded    the 
131 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

piece  that  fired  while  Lebel  was  dying.  A 
great  jolly  fellow,  clumsy,  always  laughing, 
apparently  without  either  authority  or  char- 
acter. He  had  no  love  for  the  marmites  and 
threw  himself  on  the  earth  whenever  they 
came.  But  at  critical  moments  he  was  un- 
equalled in  audacity  and  coolheadedness. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock.  We  were  having  our 
lunch  outside  when  two  105  shells  burst  over 
the  battery.     Berthon,  the  ambulance  man, 

had   his   head   blown   off.     A ,    the   big 

gunner,  was  ripped  open  in  the  chest. 
Finally,  Carriat  received  a  shot  through  the 
shoulder  and  a  ball  in  the  abdomen. 

Everyone  took  refuge  in  the  branch-trench. 
I  heard  Carriat  cry :     "  Help  !     Help  !  " 

I  don't  remember  quite  what  happened 
then.  I  went  out  alone  and  flung  myself  on 
Carriat.  I  took  him  in  my  arms  and  carried 
him  to  the  trench.  The  shells  began  to  fall 
again ;  my  wounded  man  was  heavy.  Some- 
one brought  a  stool  out  of  the  trench,  and  I 
132 


FLASHES  OF  THE  SWORD 

began  to  take  off  his  jacket.  The  sphnter 
that  had  entered  his  shoulder  had  made  only 
a  small  wound.  The  blood  trickled  out 
slowly  in  a  thin  stream. 

I  said,  in  all  sincerity: 

"  It 's  nothing  serious.  A  scratch, — 
you  '11  be  all  right  soon." 

Carriat  turned  white,  then  greenish,  then 

grey,  then  black.  .  .  .  Two  men,  A and 

Ch ,  dashed  out  to  get  the  stretchers  be- 
longing to  a  battery  of  75's,  two  hundred 
meters  behind  us.  The  plateau  was  being 
shockingly  bombarded. 

I  ask  myself  how  the  two  men  can  get 
back  without  an  accident.  Salvos  of  105's 
and  150's  are  falling  without  interruption. 
Finally,  one  lands  on  the  other  wounded 
men.  .  .  .  Eight  days  later  Carriat  died. 
We  all  supposed  he  had  been  only  slightly 
injured.  We  have  sent  the  military  medal  to 
his  family. 

Throughout  this  whole  tragedy  I  felt  as  it 
133 


THE  FLA:\IE  that  is  FRANCE 

were  intoxicated  witli  a  pure  and  lofty  sense 
of  freedom,  wliich  death  and  the  supreme 
emergencies  of  life  could  not  diminish.  .  .  . 
Three  days  later,  the  captain  gave  me  this 
note: 

"  You  held  yourself  well  under  fire." 
But,  all  the  same,  he  opposed  my  promo- 
tion from  a  second  lieutenancy.  .   .   . 


Berthon,  the  ambulance  man,  had  only 
arrived  at  the  front  a  month  before.  xV 
brave  fellow,  young,  delicate,  and  very  gentle. 
He  loved  hard  work. 

He  had  even  been  a  pointeur,  .  .  .  Since 
we  had  been  at  our  new  position,  he  had  been 
digging  with  a  surprising  tenacity',  coming 
to  the  aid  of  his  comrades  who  were  con- 
structing shelters. 

He  had  taken  us  into  his  confidence.  For 
two  years  he  loved  a  young  servant  of  his 
brother.  They  had  a  child  which  he  was 
134 


FLASHES  OF  THE  SWORD 

bringing  up.  He  expressed  his  desire  to 
marry  her  before  his  military  service,  and 
again  before  his  departure  for  the  front. 
.  .  .  And  then  .  .  . 

I  said  to  the  captain: 

"  We  have  a  duty  to  fulfil  toward  the  or- 
phan. Do  you  think  it  vrould  be  a  mistake 
to  write  to  the  mayor  or  to  Berthon's  par- 
ents to  tell  them  about  the  intentions  of  that 
poor  fellow?  " 

The  captain,  who  had  confessed  to  us  the 
excesses  of  his  own  disorderly  youth,  replied : 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  them !  Why 
didn't  they  get  married?  Bastards  don't 
interest  me.  .  .  ." 

There  were  tears  of  rage  and  impotent  pity 
in  our  eyes. 


My  God,   could  any  ceremony  have  been 
more  impressive  than  that  mass,  said  in  the 
little  church  of  Anzin,  for  Berthon's  burial  I 
135 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

The  nave  was  entirely  dark,  except  for  the 
faint,  twinkling  light  of  a  few  candles.  Four 
infantrymen  —  killed  in  the  village  square  — 
lay,  fully  dressed  on  the  stretchers.  .  .  . 
Berthon's  body  was  in  a  coffin,  for  we  had 
bought  the  planks  to  make  one  for  our  com- 
rade. The  others  were  to  be  thrown  into 
the  earth,  without  anything.  .  .  . 

An  old  priest  timidly  sang  the  mass ;  and 
a  sister  of  charity,  sixty  years  old,  under- 
took the  office  of  sacristan  and  choir-boy. 
She  said  the  responses  in  a  sad,  tremulous 
voice.  .  .  .  What  a  desolate  spectacle.  .  .  . 

The  captain  stood  beside  the  grave  and 
spoke  a  few  words.  It  embarrassed  us  to  see 
him  venturing  to  discourse  so  loudly  in  that 
solemn,  heavy  atmosphere  of  death.   .  .  . 


It  is  a  poor  grave,  adorned  with  a  cross 
made  of  two  sticks.     At  the  top  is  inscribed, 
awkwardly,  hesitatingly : 
136 


FLASHES  OF  THE  SWORD 

"  Zouave  ?  ?     Chasseur  ?  ?  " 

Soon  afterward,  the  body  was  disinterred. 
.  .  .  We  buried  it  again.  A  second  shell 
uncovered  it.  It  was  given  another  reverent 
burial  by  the  sad,  devoted  men. 

But  still  a  third  shell  flung  the  ghastly  re- 
mains in  the  air.  .  . 

The  men  now  call  it  **  the  clown." 

When  a  shell  strikes  near  the  grave  and 
they  see  the  earth  and  bones  flying  about, 
they  say,  indifferently: 

"Hello!  There's  Gugusse  jumping 
again !  " 

By  what  malediction  is  that  nameless 
thing  pursued? 


The  receivers  fastened  to  his  ears,  the  tele- 
phone sergeant  transmits  the  orders  of  the 
lieutenant  on  observation.  Enemy  shells  are 
bursting  close  about  the  post.  .  .  .  He  pays 
no  attention  to  the  firing.  His  mind  is  pas- 
137 


THE  FLAINIE  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

sionately  intent  on  its  object.  .  .  .  One  tele- 
phonist has  just  been  hit,  mortally.  Covered 
with  blood,  he  crawls  to  the  feet  of  the  ser- 
geant, clasping  his  legs  in  a  wild  and  final 
embrace.  And  the  sergeant  keeps  on  tele- 
phoning, hearing  nothing,  seeing  nothing, 
feeling  nothing.  ...  At  last,  the  arrange- 
ments finished,  he  rises  and  finds  himself  alone 
with  his  dead  comrade,  encircling  him  with 
his  supplicating  and  already  rigid  arms.   .   .   . 


We  flounder  heavily  through  the  trenches. 
We  glance  about.  The  soil  looks  dry. 
There  is  a  sharp,  complex  odor,  an  odor  of 
corpses.  I  question  a  spirited  little  lieu- 
tenant : 

"  Well,  there  's  nothing  surprising  in  that. 

Since  the  last  attack,  they  've  buried  the  dead 

in    the    trenches.   .  .  .  Little    by    little,    the 

earth  that  covers  them  has  grown  thin.     And 

138 


FLASHES  OF  THE  SWORD 

we  slip  over  the  gelatined  legs  of  a  lot  of 
corpses.  .  .   ." 

The  man   with  me  has   a  desperate  look, 
wild,  indefinable. 


In  the  trenches  taken  from  the  enemy  in 
our  May  attacks.  Full  of  sand-bags  of 
many  unexpected  colors.  Evil-smelling  saps, 
still  bedraggled  with  the  equipments  of  the 
Prussian  guard.  From  one  parapet  issues  a 
withered,  bony  forearm,  terminated  by  a 
hand  of  which  the  fingers  are  dried  and  skele- 
ton-like. The  soldiers  have  made  a  hat-rack 
of  it.  Quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  they 
hang  their  helmets  on  it. 


The  explosion  of  a  shell  has  buried  this 
Prussian  in  a  curious   way.     His  head  and 
his   legs   are   entombed.     His   shoulders   and 
139 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

back  are  exposed,  in  an  upright  position, 
against  an  abutment  over  a  firing-bench. 
And  to  mount  the  declivity  of  the  trench  one 
uses  the  soft,  broken,  putrified  shoulder  as 
a  stepping-stone.  .  .  .  Death  is  no  longer 
the  mysterious  power,  chilling,  sovereign,  of 
old.  We  brush  against  it  without  taking 
fright.  It  is  a  familiar  personage  who  bores 
us,  disgusts  us,  benumbs  us.  .  .  .  We  smile 
at  it  sometimes,  sometimes  we  shake  our  fists 
at  it  as  at  the  enemy  —  when  it  has  been  too 
abominable. 


140 


XVI 


A    MEUSE    NOCTURNE 


WE  were  shut  in  by  the  night  as  by  a 
great  black  prison.  Supply  wagons 
encumbered  the  road.  The  men  were  busily 
piling  the  projectiles  in  the  ammunition  shel- 
ters of  the  batteries.  In  their  haste  to  get 
away  the  drivers  scarcely  set  foot  to  the 
ground. 

The  whistling  of  the  shells  rent  the  air  of 
night.  A  horse  pranced  on  the  resounding 
earth.  Moving  silhouettes  revealed  them- 
selves with  precision  in  the  sudden  flash  of 
an  explosion.     And  we  heard  a  great  cry. 

A  projectile  had  fallen  on  the  horses  of 
an   ammunition  wagon   that   had  just   been 

emptied.     The    middle    driver,  C ,    was 

killed.  The  forward  driver  was  thrown 
141 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

under    the    wheels    of    a    cart    and    severely 

wounded.     The  rear  driver,  G ,  lightly 

hit,  was  dragged  off  into  the  night  by  the 
maddened  horses  of  the  grating  wagon. 

Two  hours  later,  we   saw   G coming 

up,  driving  alone  in  echelon  the  three  teams 
of  his  ammunition  wagon.  Calm  and  pale, 
he  saluted  the  adjutant  and  unhitched  the 
horses.  He  went  to  rouse  his  comrades  at 
their  gun.  Finally,  he  wept,  telling  them 
that  C was  dead. 


They  carried  C 's  body  to  the  Refuge. 

.  .  .  He  had  not  suffered.  A  splinter  struck 
him  in  the  heart.  He  was  a  great  fair-haired 
fellow,  boisterous  and  gentle,  a  brave,  care- 
ful soldier.  The  men  of  his  gun  felt  for  him 
an    almost    reverent    admiration.     "  Though 

he  was   a  mason,"  S said  to  me,  with 

tears   in   his   eyes,   "  he   could  have  got   the 
better  of  many  in  geography." 
142 


A  MEUSE  NOCTURNE 

He  had  talked  to  them  about  beautiful 
countries,  with  enchanted  names,  and  about 
the  burning  tropics,  and  he  transpierced  their 
shut-in  hearts  with  exaltation  and  nostalgia. 

N ,   the   forward   driver,   had   twenty 

wounds     and     two     broken     ribs.     Doctor 

B ,  after  dressing  those  that  were  most 

urgent,  sent  him  away,  assuring  him  that  he 
would  get  well.  He  did  not  utter  a  word  of 
complaint.  With  eyes  dilated  and  swimming 
in  tears,  he  murmured : 

"  I  tell  you  I  saw  the  shell  coming  toward 
me;  I  saw  it  swoop  down,  like  a  red  hawk, 
just  beside  me." 

The  ambulance  men,  incredulous^  listened 
to  him  with  a  pitying  irony. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  boy,  but  you  must  keep 
quiet." 

Two  more  projectiles  burst  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  batteries.  One  would  have 
said  they  had  overturned  the  shadowy  ram- 
parts of  the  night,  for  immediately  there  ap- 
143 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

peared   a   sort  of  ashj   dawn,   fringed   with 

rose. 

*     *     * 

We  were  discovered  by  the  enemy.  All 
day  he  continued  to  send  us  asphyxiating 
and  tear-shells.  The  soldiers  have  worn  their 
masks.  And  we  have  the  air  of  taking  part 
in  some  dismal  masquerade. 

In  the  midst  of  the  incessant  bombard- 
ment our  men,  by  a  miracle  of  ingenuity  and 
courage,  have  hunted  out  some  planks  and 

put  together  a  coffin  for  C .  .  .  .  Stout 

Ch himself,   who   has  n't   the   reputation 

of  exactly  loving  the  clatter  of  shells,  ran 
about,  leaping  like  a  mad  goat,  amid  the 
explosions.  He  was  looking  for  leaves  and 
branches,  on  that  smoking,  devastated  hill, 
and  he  found  enough  to  bind  together  and 
make  a  verdant  cross  and  a  crown. 

Captain  D came  down  to  the  Refuge 

to  place  it  on  C 's  bier.     He  came  again 

at  the  end  of  an  hour. 
144 


A  MEUSE  NOCTURNE 

"  I  have  given  orders  for  them  to  carry 
the  coflSn  as  far  up  as  the  position  of  the 

battery.     So  C will  spend  his  last  day 

among  his  comrades.   .   .   ." 

Captain     I> reflected     a     moment. 

Then: 

"  It 's  curious,"  he  confided  to  me,  "  I 
thought  I  should  be  completely  upset  when  I 
saw  C 's  body,  and  I  was  not  deeply  dis- 
turbed. I  wanted  to  help  put  him  in  the 
coffin  myself.  My  reverent  hand  did  not 
tremble.  You  see,  his  poor  corpse  is  too 
ravaged,  too  different  from  what  we  have 
known.  I  have  in  my  memory  a  lively,  happy 
image  of  that  remarkable  soldier.  I  shall 
keep  it.  However  unkind  and  deforming 
death  was  to  him,  it  has  left  him  with  me 
intact." 


The    coffin,    trimmed    with    a    few    leafy 
branches,  remained  till  evening  at  the  head- 
145 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

quarters  of  our  battery.  The  enemy  never 
ceased  firing  at  our  position.  We  feared 
lest  a  shell  might  injure  the  sad  bier,  so  la- 
boriously constructed.  The  humble  remains 
were  confided  to  our  care,  and  it  pained  us 
that  this  tumult  might  once  more  disturb  the 

last  sleep  of  the  unhappy  C .     The  tear 

shells  of  the  adversary  set  floating  through 
the  air  their  clouds  of  incense  and  odors  of 
wax.   .   .   . 

At  nightfall,  the  officers  of  the  group  and 
the  men  of  the  battery  gathered  about  the 
coffin.     All    raised    their    helmets.      Captain 

D had  scribbled  a  few  notes  on  a  paper. 

The  voice  of  the  commandant  rose,  clear  and 
strong,  amid  the  orgy  of  artillery  that  was 
letting  itself  loose.  It  brought  us  words 
of  comfort,  hope  and  energy.  Beside  me, 
L had  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  My   dear    fellow,   I    can't   help   it.  .  .  . 
those  tear-shells.   .  .  ." 
146 


A  MEUSE  NOCTURNE 

"  Come  now,  this  is  a  nice  time  when 
they  've  stopped  sending  us  any,  and  the 
wind  has  blown  the  poisonous  mist  away." 

"  You  bore  me.  ...  I  tell  you  they  still 
make  my  eyes  smart.  I  shall  have  to  put  on 
my  mask.   .  .  ." 

And  turning  his  back  on  me,  L ac- 
tually takes  out  his  mask  and  conceals  him- 
self behind  it. 


The  men  slept,  fully  dressed,  in  their  damp 
shelters.  A  heavy  sleep,  broken  with  night- 
mares and  heavy  cries.  Our  guns,  their  muz- 
zles casting  forth  tiny  glints  of  steel,  lay 
squat  in  the  shadow  like  jackals  with  phos- 
phorescent eyes. 

Captain  D was  more  moved  than  he 

had  admitted.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  lie  down.  All  night  he  remained  near  me, 
walking  nervously  about  on  the  black,  pow- 
dery earth  of  our  position.  But  I  could  not 
147 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

distinguish  any  trace  of  emotion  on  his  face. 
Some  rockets  shot  up,  sweeping  through 
the  night,  which  was  no  longer  broken  by  the 
brilliant  glare  of  the  explosions.  A  heavy 
silence  enveloped  all  things.  And  this  de- 
ceitful calm  on  top  of  such  a  mad  frenzy  was 
more  disquieting  than  the  tempest  of  an  at- 
tack. The  feverish  sentries  kept  their  eyes 
tirelessW  on  the  horizon  where  the  enigmati- 
cal adversary  lay  concealed. 


148 


XVII 

THE  SKELETON  BEFORE  THE  TRENCH 

SEVERAL  days  ago  we  left  those  misty 
valley  regions  where  we  lived  for  more 
than  a  year.  We  were  happy  to  quit  them. 
But  we  left  down  there,  amid  the  upheaved 
earth,  good,  sober  comrades  whom  we  shall 
never  see  again. 

A  wild,  mysterious  resignation  reigns  over 
our  hearts.  We  no  longer  keep  any  memory 
of  the  past.  Our  hearts  are  set  on  the  pres- 
ent. We  long  to  surprise  the  future. 
Later,  memories  will  have  plenty  of  time  to 
blossom.  .  .  .  The  few  thoughts  we  have  are 
pure  and  simple  in  outline,  frank  and  direct 
in  feeling.  And  action  has  driven  melan- 
choly away. 

149 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Today,  it  is  my  turn  to  go  to  our  new 
observation  post.  The  sun  has  not  yet  risen. 
We  breathe  in  the  mist  and  the  chill.  The 
winding  trench  which  we  follow  has  retained 
the  rain-water  and  it  runs  with  the  declivity. 
We  sink  in  the  mud  up  to  the  knees.  We 
flounder.  I  see  I  must  do  something  deci- 
sive. I  remove  my  buskins  and  socks  and 
lift  as  high  as  I  can  my  drawers  and  my 
breeches.  The  telephonists  follow  my  exam- 
ple. And  lightened  and  fastened  up,  our 
calves  exposed,  our  feet  naked,  we  take  up 

our  march. 

*     *     * 

After  several  detours,  several  stops,  we 
arrive  at  the  appointed  spot.  The  infantry- 
men look  at  us  with  calm,  heavy  eyes.  Then, 
with  joyous  gestures,  they  crowd  eagerly 
about  us.  The  officers  welcome  me.  It  is 
not  yet  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  early 
as  it  is  they  oblige  me  to  smoke  a  cigar  which 
they  offer  me.  I  am  over-heated. 
150 


THE  SKELETON 

A  feeble,  creeping  breeze  stirs  and  shakes 
the  mist  and  liberates  the  uncertain  light. 
In  a  few  minutes,  the  contours  of  the  strange 
landscape  that  opens  before  us  have  come  to- 
gether, bathed  in  the  reconciling  dawn. 


I  open  out  the  chart.  A  captain  of  infan- 
try shows  me  the  enemy  positions  and  we 
make  a  survey  of  the  horizon.  Nothing  es- 
capes the  vigilance  of  my  companion.  While 
he  is  speaking  in  his  deep,  tense  voice,  I  ob- 
serve our  objectives. 

A   stifled   cry   behind   us   makes    me   turn 

around.     R ,  the  telephone  sergeant,  his 

eyes  wide  and  flaming,  points  to  a  spot  to 
the  west  of  the  national  road.  His  hoarse, 
hard  words  issue  with  diflSculty  from  his  con- 
tracted throat. 

"  Down  there.  Lieutenant,  do  you  see  .  .  . 
there  are  fourteen  of  them  ...  I  have 
counted.  .   .  ." 

151 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

I  do  not  at  first  distinguish  what  he  is 
pointing  at.  Then,  suddenly,  with  heart 
throbbing,  in  a  cahn,  casual  voice: 

"Ah!  yes.  ...  I  see  them.  .  .  ." 

Quite  at  our  left,  before  the  parapet  of  the 
enemy  trench,  several  long,  blue  spots.  .  .  . 

They  are  our  own  men  whom  we  were  not 
able  to  relieve.  .  .  .  There  they  are  pros- 
trate, their  faces  toward  the  sky,  as  if  look- 
ing for  vengeance  and  retaliation.  .  .  .  Some 
of  them  are  face  down  against  the  earth, 
their  arms  crossed,  so  gently  lying  there  that 
one  would  say  they  were  embracing  once  more 
the  well-loved  soil  for  which  they  had  died. 

I  observe  them  with  the  field-glass.  No 
distressing  contortions,  no  disconsolate  pos- 
tures. Their  attitudes  are  harmonious,  fas- 
cinating, dignified.  They  are  as  if  struck 
iwith  beauty. 

Why  has  no  one  been  able  to  bury  them? 
How  long  have  they  been  there? 

Captain  M interrupts  my  revery: 

152 


THE  SKELETON 

*'  You  are  looking  at  those  dead  men  down 
there.  .  .  .  We  were  able  to  drag  three  of 
them  here.  But  eight  others  were  massa- 
cred while  they  were  on  their  way  to  seek 
their  comrades.   .  .  . 

"  Two  enemy  machine-guns  were  turned  on 
the  pathetic  group.  We  have  tried  to  re- 
claim our  men  at  all  hours  of  the  night. 
Every  time  the  adversary  discovers  our  pious 
enterprise.  And  when  the  wounded  fall  the 
Prussians  continue  to  fire  on  them.  ...  It 
became  necessary  for  the  colonel  to  give  or- 
ders to  end  these  deadly  excursions.  If  you 
knew  how  hard  it  has  been  to  make  the  men 
respect  those  instructions !  .  .  .  How  dull 
they  are,  those  Boches !  Don't  they  under- 
stand how  that  melancholy  vision  increases 
our  fury?  But  turn  a  little.  Three  hun- 
dred meters  away,  there,  on  the  summit  of 
the    parapet,    you    will    see    something    still 

stranger.  .  .  ." 

*     *     * 

153 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

Sergeant  R is  half -strangling  with  a 

furious  oath.  A  skeleton  looks  as  if  it  had 
been  set  up  in  front  of  the  German  trench. 
It  is  on  its  knees.  We  distinguish  a  pair  of 
blue  breeches  still  covering  the  bent  legs. 
Tlie  head  and  the  arms  are  missing.  We  see 
nothing  but  the  thorax  of  which  we  are  able 
to  count  the  ribs  and  descry  the  vertebral 
column.  By  what  miracle  is  it  standing  up- 
right? Have  our  enemies  placed  it  there  to 
frighten  those  who  are  pursuing  them? 

But  behold!  that  skeleton  is  facing  the 
enemy.  From  the  silence  of  death  it  wrests 
a  radiant,  strong,  implacable  meaning.  It 
seems  still  to  bar  the  road  of  the  barbarians, 
to  forbid  them  to  pass.  It  is  there  like  an 
unfailing  guardian,  uttering  an  endless  war- 
cry.  What  matter  that  the  frail  and  per- 
ishable flesh  has  vanished !  The  frame  re- 
mains.    It  stands  there,  a  symbol  of  our  will. 

We  fight  no  longer  merely  to  the  last  drop 
154, 


THE  SKELETON 

of  our  blood,  but  to  the  last  grain  of  dust 
of  our  last  bone  ! 

A  number  of  infantrymen  are  approaching 
us.  The  skeleton,  the  advance  sentinel,  still 
impresses  on  our  souls  its  pure,  powerful  sig« 
nification.  Is  not  this  awful  attitude  better^ 
my  brothers,  is  it  not  better,  Jean,  PierrCf 
Paul,  than  burial  in  the  breast  of  the  obscure 
earth?  Ah,  God,  if  we  must  die,  grant  that, 
rising  above  the  abyss,  overleaping  the  be- 
yond, bursting  the  tomb  asunder,  our  upright 
corpses  may  arrest  and  defy  still,  with  all 
their  outraged  pride,  the  invading  horde! 


155 


XVIII 

A    DESCENT    INTO    HELL 

has  come  to  see  me.     His  company 

has  been  relieved.  He  did  not  have 
the  strength  to  go  to  his  cantonment  and  has 
stopped  at  the  position  of  our  battery. 

Before  the  war,  my  friend  was  the  most 
elegant  of  our  writers,  as  much  by  the  cut 
of  his  clothes  as  by  the  subtlety  of  his  dis- 
course. Today,  he  wears  a  cloak  bedraggled 
with  mud,  and  boots  that  are  unrecognizable. 
.  .  .  His  conversation  is  of  a  bold  familiar- 
ity and  he  is  the  intimate  friend  of  the  sim- 
plest peasants  of  his  country. 

F ,  who  is  hungry,  has  an  irresistible 

feeling  of  sympathy  for  our  cook.     It  is  a 

rare  and  touching  sight.     My  comrade  has 

156 


A  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 

passed  four  sleepless  nights.  He  cannot 
bring  himself  to  take  off  the  boots  that  cause 
him  so  much  suffering.  And  you  should  see 
with  what  infinite  care  our  cook  cuts  the  laces 
and  draws  them  off.  .  .  .  He  has  even  in- 
sisted on  bathing  the  sore  feet,  covered  with 
bluish  swellings.  The  historic  gesture  and 
the  sad  fatigue  of  him  who  has  provoked  it 
touch  us  almost  to  tears. 

We  have  rubbed  and  dressed  the  poor  boy. 
And  now,  he  laughs,  happy,  his  eyes  still 
strange  and  weary.  Once  more  I  recognize 
that  strong  soul  of  his.  When  he  speaks, 
you  feel  yourself  in  tune  with  some  inde- 
scribable melody  and  everything  that  is  best 
in  you  springs  up  in  your  heart. 


After  his   rest,  I  accompanied  F to 

his  cantonment.     We  had  some  long  talks. 

Once  more  I  found  him  the  lover  of  grand 

ideas,  the  passionate  devotee  of  rare  truths. 

157 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

"  You  must  n't  think,"  he  said  to  me, 
"  that  the  war  has  brutalized  me.  Even  the 
ferocious  acts  we  are  obliged  to  commit  seem 
to  me  without  significance.  .  .  ." 

"  Just  how  do  you.  mean.^  " 

"  Our  murderous  ancestral  habits  have  re- 
conquered us  perhaps,  those  inheritances 
plunged  in  the  depths  of  the  ages  as  in  an 
ocean  which  the  storm  throws  up  again  to 
the  surface.  But  I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  been 
so  free  from  the  sluggishness  of  matter,  from 
the  standards  of  the  brute,  as  I  have  since  I 
was  thrown  into  this  tragic  chaos  of  men  and 
things." 

"  Impenitent   idealist !  " 

"  Wait  a  moment.  It  is  as  much  so  with 
you  as  with  me.  And  what  would  remain 
for  us  if  we  could  not  escape  from  this  circle 
of  hell?" 

"  We  should  appreciate  better  the  simple, 
terrestrial  joys  that  we  have  scorned.  .  .   ." 

"  No,  on  the  contrary,  I  think  that  the 
158 


A  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 

unheard-of      devastations       of      this      war 

strengthen  the  mystical  things  and  show  us 

the  true  value  of  the  goods  of  life.  .  .  .  One 

single  message   from   these   troublous   times 

inscribes  itself,  in  letters  of  fire,  on  the  proud 

conscience:   to    seek   amid   appearances    and 

agitations   the  central  truth   and  the  inner 

strength  of  things." 

"  I     hardly     grasp     statements     of     that 

kind.   .   .   ." 

*     *     * 

F paused.     He  looked  at  me  intently. 


In  a  deep  anxious  voice  he  replied,  fever- 
ishly : 

"  Listen.  I  have  told  no  one  else  what  I 
am  going  to  tell  you.  They  would  think  me 
mad.  But  you,  you  perhaps  will  be  able  to 
understand  it.  ,  .  .  And  I  need  to  express, 
to  get  outside  me,  to  put  into  words, 
these  memories  that  scorch  and  haunt  me. 

"  You  know  we  made  an  attack  four  days 
ago.  The  enemy  was  forewarned.  To  our 
159 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

artillery  preparation,  he  replied  with  a  coun- 
ter-preparation which  lost  us  a  good  many 
of  our  men.  Before  we  came  out  of  the 
trenches  a  third  of  the  effectives  of  our  com- 
pany were  disabled.  At  the  moment  when 
we  leaped  over  the  parapet,  we  heard  the 
cries  of  our  wounded,  our  dying.  Our  objec- 
tive    was     the     cemetery     of     P .     We 

bounded  out,  intoxicated,  eager  to  come  to 
conclusions  with  the  enemy  and  existence.  I 
pass  over  the  incidents,  the  usual  ferocious 
incidents,  of  the  attack.  .  .  . 

"  At  last  we  arrived  at  the  cemetery,  which 
was  slashed  with  trenches,  in  a  confusion  of 
scattered  bones  and  tombstones.  For  my 
part,  I  installed  myself  in  a  granite  mauso- 
leum which  had  already  served  the  enemy  as 
a  company  headquarters.  I  remained  there 
till  the  next  night. 

"  Can  I  give  you  any  idea  of  how  I  lived 
in  that  place?  ...  At  first,  I  was  too  fever- 
ish, too  occupied  with  organizing  our  resist- 
160 


A  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 

ance.  During  the  night,  there  were  two 
counter-attacks  which  we  repulsed.  At 
dawn,  I  was  actually  able  to  sleep,  in  that 
tomb,  for  two  hours.  ...  I  awoke  scream- 
ing, I  don't  know  why.  ...  A  moment  after 
came  another  counter-attack.  I  saw  the  as- 
sailants descending  the  slopes,  grotesque, 
fantastic,  with  their  ludicrous  masks,  tum- 
bling, yelling.  .  .  .  We  remained  masters  of 
the  field,  despite  the  intense  bombardment  of 
the  adversary.     I  returned  to  my  cave. 

"When  things  reach  a  certain  degree  of 
dreadfulness  they  become  almost  comic.  I 
had  a  silent  laugh  as  I  thought  over  this  sin- 
ister scene.  But  I  was  tormented  with  thirst 
and  my  canteen  was  empty.  ...  I  had  a 
sort  of  stroke  of  dizziness.  The  cold  of  the 
stone  penetrated  me.  ...  I  was  alone  in  the 
narrow  crypt.  I  cast  aside  my  helmet,  feel- 
ing the  need  of  talking, —  perhaps  to  drive 
away  a  mysterious  fear  that  came  over  me. 

" '  Well,  how  are  you .? '  I  said,  smiling. 
161 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

*  You  see  I  've  come  to  visit  you,  dear  Death. 
.  .  .  An  unseasonable  visit,  eh?  You  tried 
to  conquer  me  when  I  was  struggling  with 
you.  Now  I  throw  myself  into  your  arms ; 
I  embrace  you ;  I  acquiesce  utterly.  I  await 
your  orders.' 

"  I  must  have  been  speaking  very  loudly. 
Someone  thrust  his  head  through  the  opening 
of  the  cenotaph.  I  heard  a  whisper.  Then 
a  new  evening  enveloped  us.  We  should  have 
been  relieved  during  the  night.  No  one 
came.     They  had  forgotten  us. 


"  I  despatched  several  liaison  men  to  our 
people.  None  of  them  came  back.  On  the 
third  morning  the  enemy  himself  seemed  to 
be  appeased.  I  was  no  longer  In  communi- 
cation with  our  headquarters.  Alreadj^  we 
were  short  of  ammunition  and  food.  As  for 
me,  I  had  nothing  left,  either  to  eat  or  to 
drink.  Hunger  was  making  me  dizzy.  And 
162 


A  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 

I  did  not  venture  to  ask  the  men  for  a  biscuit. 
As  I  looked  about,  a  terrifying  idea  took 
possession  of  me:  we  were  cut  off  from  the 
living.  A  door  had  closed  abruptly  on  life, 
on  our  past,  and  we  were  plunged  in  a  night 
that  was  vast  and  black. 

"  I  stretched  myself  out  on  the  straw  in  my 
sepulchre  and  tried  to  sleep.  Racked  with 
pain,  crushed  with  fatigue,  I  finally  reached 
the  last  extremity.  ...  I  experienced  an 
indefinable  sensation:  as  I  lay  on  my  side,  it 
suddenly  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  risen  out 
of  my  mortal  vestment,  that  my  personality 
had  quitted  my  body.  I  saw  my  actual  skele- 
ton, shorn  of  its  muscles  and  twisted  in  the 
attitude  which  I  had  taken ;  I  saw  my  smooth 
skull,  my  striate  thorax,  my  slender  shin  and 
thigh  bones.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
at  the  bottom  of  an  immense  flight  of  steps  — 
and  that  I  was  being  pushed  even  lower.  A 
single  ray  of  greenish  light  followed  me  like  a 
glaucous  eye.  .  .  . 

163 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

"  Presently,  I  heard  something  like  the 
crumbling  of  the  walls  of  a  prison.  .  .  .  My 
liberated  spirit  eddied  round,  a  keen,  scanty 
flame,  against  the  paleness  of  an  unknown 
world,  .  .  .  And  I  had  the  grave,  tranquil 
impression  that  I  had  entered  into  a  compre- 
hension of  the  universal,  that  I  had  pene- 
trated into  the  heart  of  truth. 


"  Things  no  longer  had  separate  shapes, 
things  were  no  longer  far  or  near.  I  felt 
myself  united,  blended  with  all  things.  The 
worlds  and  the  planets  streamed  together,  a 
dense  and  acrid  smoke.  Stone  and  iron  were 
no  longer  anything  but  transparent  shadow. 
What  surprised  me  was  the  dwindled  size  of 
this  cold,  stifling  mist  which  to  me  repre- 
sented the  infinite  universe.  In  a  tiny  cor- 
ner of  it,  condensed,  piled  up,  and  as  if  stuck 
together,  there  swarmed  a  mass  of  minute 
moths,  which  were  devouring  each  other.  .  .  . 
164 


A  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 

"  Little  by  little,  the  grey  mass  became 
denser  and  turned  golden,  and  the  flying, 
dancing  molecules  crowded  still  more  closely 
together.  .  .  .  But  it  was  all  so  small  that 
a  child  could  have  held  it  between  his  fingers 
like  a  light  handful  of  sand. 

"  A  bluish  light  cast  certain  outlines  into 
relief.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  more 
spacious  than  the  earth  and  the  sun  and  that 
my  head  struck  against  the  stars  the  mild 
serenity  of  which  gave  to  my  soul  a  message 
of  harmony,  peace  and  love.  .  .  . 

"  Meanwhile,  everything  about  me  grew 
larger,  and  my  spacious  life  contracted.  .  .  . 
I  returned  to  this  sad  globe  of  ours,  which 
seemed  to  me  a  planet  like  the  moon,  dead, 
enclosed  in  a  black  shell,  burned  and  cracked 
with  flaming  orifices.  .  .  .  Creeping  hordes 
clutched  and  tortured  this  sombre  thing 
which  was  for  me  the  earth.  .  .  . 

"  Of  a  sudden,  everything  was  transformed 
to  the  proportions  of  reality.  Once  more  it 
165 


THE  PXAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

seemed  to  mo  that  some  unknown  aerial  spirit 
was  refashioning,  with  careful  ardor,  the 
framework  of  my  body ;  it  polished  the  bones 
of  my  skeleton,  curved  the  ribs  and  reassem- 
bled the  elements  of  my  frame,  like  the  pieces 
of  a  complex  machine;  it  arranged,  united 
and  connected  the  muscles  and  the  sinuous 
veins,  set  in  the  eyes,  pushed  the  brain  into 
its  bony  box,  laid  in  the  heart,  suspended  the 
lungs  in  the  pectoral  cage.  .  .  .  When  all 
the  organs  were  fixed  and  united,  it  enveloped 
them  in  the  robe  of  flesh.  But  this  being  of 
mine  was  frail  and  insignificant.  By  a  thou- 
sand luminous  strings  the  spirit  attached  it 
to  the  inscrutable  substances  of  the  universe. 
.  .  .  The  strange  automaton  developed  and 
I  was  precipitately  thrown  back  to  my  im- 
pressions of  childhood.  .  .  . 

"  I  found  myself  exhausted,  broken,  as  if 
during  the  years  I  had  wandered  the  world 
over. 

"  An  hour  later  we  were  relieved.  I  expe- 
166 


A  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 

rienced  an  indescribable  sense  of  humiliation, 
like  that  of  a  slave.  And  I  was  surprised  tfj 
find  myself  feeling  as  if  an  unknown  force 
had  thrown  me  back  to  the  primal  ooze. 


**  Since  then  I  remain  persuaded  that  I 
have  penetrated  an  essential  secret  and  that 
the  unheard-of  sufferings  I  have  endured 
have  brought  me  knowledge  of  the  absolute. 
...  I  believe  that  with  trembling  arms  I 
have  grasped  the  truth.  I  believe  I  have 
penetrated  into  the  supreme  simplicity, — 
simplicity,  you  understand.  For  that  is  not 
simple  which  puts  trust  in  those  two  falla- 
cious spheres,  our  eyes,  nor  is  that  true 
which  lives  the  common  mirage  wherein  we 
agitate  ourselves. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  picture  of  Rem- 
brandt, *  Jacob  and  the  Angel '?  I  keep  see- 
ing Jacob,  pressing  to  his  breast,  with  all  the 
force  of  his  knotted  muscles,  the  archangel 
167 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

who  smiles  with  pity  and  glides  away,  rises 
and  leaves  that  man  so  resolute  to  imprison 
him  in  his  arms.  .  .  .  That  is  just  what  I 
have  experienced.  Can  you  understand?  A 
storm  has  convulsed  the  sleeping  waters  of 
my  innermost  being. 


''But  the  death  througli  which  I  have 
passed  in  the  fire  of  my  thought  has  not 
given  me  absolution.  It  has  corroded  me,  it 
has  set  its  mark  upon  me.  ...  I  have  al- 
ways in  my  mouth  a  taste  of  cinders,  a  bitter- 
ness that  nothing  can  efface.  I  abhor  the 
leaders  who  direct  this  society  of  disorder 
and  hatred;  I  see  them  as  cruel,  selfish  and 
base.  I  find  in  my  fellow-creatures  nothing 
but  pitiful  ugliness,  falsehood,  and  injus- 
tice. .  .  . 

''I  feel  I  shall  not  come  back  from  the 
war.  But  what  is  most  tragic  in  this  is  that 
I  recognize  my  own  stigma  upon  all  my  fu- 
168 


A  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 

iture  companions  under  the  soil.     It  is  this 
that  scorches  me  and  haunts  me. 

*'  Every  moment,  I  look  my  life  in  the  face 
and  ask  myself :  *  Have  I  accomplished  my 
destiny  as  I  should?  Have  I  been  good,  wise, 
noble?  Has  my  love  been  efficacious ?  Have 
I  helped  those  who  are  dearest  to  me  ?  Have 
I  done  my  share  of  the  work  of  all  the  strong, 
dissatisfied,  passionate  souls  who  have  passed 
through  this  life?  Have  my  appeals  been 
heard  on  this  wide  and  shadowy  road  which  is 
humanity?  ' 

*'  Do  not  try  to  console  me.  You  would 
only  increase  my  confusion  and  strengthen 
the  conviction  that  is  killing  me. 

"  Be  assured,  I  shall  do  my  duty  like  all 
those  of  my  race.  But  to  your  friendly 
hands  I  surrender  my  plans,  my  ardor,  my 
strength,  that  you  may  serve  them,  augment 
them,  perpetuate  them." 

*     *     * 

Twelve   days   after  this   conversation  my 
169 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

friend  F died.     Since  then,  his  memory 

has  been  to  me  like  a  tempest. 


For  a  long  time  we  have  been  dwelling 
under  the  earth,  in  the  earth.  In  his  heart, 
in  his  secret  we  have  lived.  What  can  we 
derive  from  it  ?  And  how  can  we  bring  it  up 
to  the  surface  of  the  world  .'^ 

Are  we  to  become  once  more  men  of  feroc- 
ity, slaves  of  the  sovereign  instinct  to  live 
and  to  destroy?  Is  more  clay  to  be  added 
to  our  scallop-shell  of  dust.^^  Is  our  animal- 
ity  going  to  be  increased  or  are  we  going  to 
quit  this  heavy  tenement  and  rise  again,  pure, 
light,  different  .P 


170 


XIX 


THE    SLAVE    OF    MINOS 


DOCTOR  B ,  whose  fine  sensibility 
we  love,  has  been  my  companion  during 
this  icy  night.  With  his  nervous  gestures, 
his  lively  eye,  he  has  given  me  certain  details 
regarding  the  death  of  my  comrade.  Lieuten- 
ant F . 

"  Without  doubt,  F was  a  wonderful 

soul.  But  one  can't  help  feeling  that  he  died 
uselessly,  foolishly.  ...  A  veritable  suicide, 
when  you  come  to  think  it  over. 

"  The  enemy  had  made  a  number  of  small 
attacks    on    the   entrenchment    defended    by 

F 's  company.     I  shall  not  dwell  on  the 

vicissitudes    of    that    bitter    struggle.     You 

know   them   already.     I   found   myself   near 

171 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

the  major,  five  hundred  meters  behind  our 
friend,  and  we  were  preparing  to  intervene. 

F had  repulsed  three  assaults,  and  the 

adversary  did  not  expose  himself  again  for 
two  hours. 

"  Suddenly,  a  series  of  shells  exploded  in 
our  neighborhood.  A  moment  after,  we 
heard  pantings,  steps  flapping  in  the 
mud.  .  .  . 

"  '  Don't  shoot.  It 's  our  own  men ! '  cried 
the  sentry. 

"Just  then,  F and  a  group  of  fifty 

soldiers  of  his  company  threw  themselves  into 
our  trench,  breathless,  with  anxious  eyes, 
their  faces  haggard.  Immediately,  the 
major  summoned  Lieutenant  F and  de- 
manded explanations.  ...  I  can  still  see 
him  approaching,  panting,  running  with 
sweat,  grave,  and  so  young. 

"  '  Where  have  j'ou  come  irom?  '  enquired 
the  commandant,  in  a  rough  voice. 

"  '  We  were  surrounded.  Our  ammunition 
172 


THE  SLAVE  OF  MINOS 

was  beginning  to  give  out.  I  tried  to  com- 
municate with  you,  without  succeeding. 
Then  I  gave  the  order  to  retreat.  We  have 
opened  a  breach.     And  here  we  are.' 

"  '  You  should  have  held  out  at  all  costs 
and  not  left  your  post.' 

"  '  We  were  unable  to  hold  out  any  longer. 
We  should  all  have  been  taken.' 

"  '  Then  you  believe  you  have  done  your 
full  duty?' 

"  F drew  back  a  step.     He  flushed, 

began  to  tremble;  then,  with  mounting  ex- 
citement, he  said : 

"  '  Yes,  my  commandant,  I  did  my  duty, — 
I  am  sure  of  that  —  my  full  duty !  You  do 
not  believe  that  I  left  because  I  was 
afraid.  .  .  .' 

"  *  I  beg  you  to  make  me  a  calmer  report.' 

"  F was  choking  with  rage  and  de- 
spair. 

"  *  I  was  not  afraid,  my  commandant !  I 
do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  afraid.  ...  Do 
173 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

you  wish  me  to  prove  that  I  am  not 
afraid?  .   .  .' 

"  F was    already    climbing    up    the 

firing-bench.     The  major  tried  to  stop  him. 

"  '  Wait,  wait,  my  friend ;  I  'm  not  in  any 
wa}'  reproaching  you,"  he  besought  him. 

"  But  F had  lifted  himself  on  the  par- 
apet. He  gesticulated,  challenged  the  en- 
emy. ...  A  hail  of  bullets  tossed  him  into 
the  trench,  shot  through  the  throat  and 
breast. 

"  At  this  point  my  memory  grows  con- 
fused.    I  recall  only  that  we  caught  F , 

three  or  four  of  us,  and  carried  him  to  the 
Refuge.  He  was  still  breathing,  but  was  un- 
able to  speak.  He  only  looked  at  us,  out  of 
his  great,  good  eyes,  which  shone  with  so 
tender  and  happy  a  light,  so  strange  a  seren- 
ity.  ...   I  would  have  given  everything  in 

the  world  to  save  him.     F was  dead,  he 

had  been  dead  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I 

still  continued  to  lavish  on  him  my  miserable 

174 


THE  SLAVE  OF  MINOS 

attentions.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  his  eye  was 
so  clear,  so  profoundly  living.  .  .  .  We 
wanted  to  close  his  e^'elids.  It  was  impos- 
sible. .  .  .  The  commandant  wept  in  a  cor- 
ner.    Ever\'  minute,  the  trembling  voice  of 

one  of  his  men  demanded  news  of  F . 

"  An  hour  later,  we  recaptured  the  aban- 
doned trench.     The   following  day  we  were 

relieved.     We  buried  our  friend  at  N . 

.  .  .  I  was  unable  to  close  his  eyes,  whose 
sweet  and  faraway  light  pursues  my  mem- 
ory. .  .  .  The  major  has  asked  for  a  change 
of  regiment." 


Snow  had  been  falling  for  several  days.  It 
masked  the  houses,  the  fields,  and  the  trees. 
The  sky  looked  like  a  frozen  pond.  The  out- 
lines and  perspectives  of  things  were  effaced. 
There  were  a  few  faint,  bluish,  trembling 
shadows.  How  white  the  night  seemed ! 
The  world  this  evening  was  a  vast  pale  ter- 
175 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

race  obliterating  the  men,  overhanging  the 
summits  of  the  hills. 

Despite  the  embrace  of  a  bitter  melancholy 
we  had  a  feeling  of  lucidity,  fascination.  .  .  . 

Doctor  B repeated  over  and  over  with 

agitation : 

"  Yet,  I  keep  asking  myself  if  I  really 
caught    the    last    expression    of    our    friend 

F ,  if,  in  his  supreme  moments,  he  was 

not  still  tormented  by  the  reproach  of  a  great 
work  that  had  not  been  fulfilled.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,"  I  say ;  "  men  cannot  any  longer 

judge  him." 

*     *     * 

Doctor  B was  silent.     The  cold  made 

us  shiver.     I  tried  to  call  up  the  image  of 

my  friend  F ,  who  kept  his  great  eyes 

open  in  the  grave.  .  .  .  Some  indescribable 
feeling  of  bewilderment  took  possession  of 
me;  my  head  felt  dizzy.  Everything  reeled 
about  me.  I  was  on  the  point  of  crying  out. 
It  seemed  to  me  suddenly  that  the  body  of 
176 


THE  SLAVE  OF  MINOS 

F lay    before    us,    barring    our    way, 

stretched  out  on  the  snowy  plain  as  upon  an 
immense  operating-table.  I  marked  all  the 
hidden   fluctuations    of   his    sensibility.  .  .  . 

Truly,  it  was  F .     And  yet  I  saw  in  him 

a  thousand  fugitive  resemblances  with  every 
one  of  our  men.  His  violet  lips  stirred,  as 
a  voice,  impersonal,  passionate,  issued  from 
them: 

"  Do  not  too  loftily  censure  our  suscepti- 
bility. ...  Be  discreet  with  your  praises 
and  your  reprimands.  You  should  know  this 
well  enough,  you  who  have  renounced  friend- 
ship, love,  happiness,  the  whole  precious 
existence  which  your  ambition  promised  it- 
self. The  sacrifice  we  have  acquiesced  in  has 
made  us  so  pure  that  no  man  can  any  longer 
comprehend  or  judge  us.  .  .  .  Life  has 
withdrawn  from  us  like  a  song  slowly  extin- 
guished. The  memory  we  leave  behind  is  a 
tapestry  of  confused  and  faded  colors.  .  .  . 

"  What  consolations,  what  flatteries  will 
177 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

diminish  the  secret  bitterness  of  those  who 
have  surrendered  everything?  And  who 
would  dare  to  reckon  up  their  merits  or  cal- 
culate the  value  of  such  mysterious,  intrepid 
resolves?  The  praise  and  the  blame  of 
others  do  not  befit  our  deeds.  Let  them 
watch  us  go  by  in  silence, —  the  silence  wliich 
respects  a  soul  that  a  mere  nothing  can 
wound.  .  .  .  Let  them  not  ask  our  conscious- 
ness to  leave  the  twilight  which  it  loves  and 
where  it  finds  nothing  supportable  but  its  own 
despair.  .  .  . 

"  We  have  broken  all  our  human  ties.  We 
are  solitary  and  multitudinous,  a  brother- 
hood, yet  strangers  to  one  another.  And 
behold,  we  have  penetrated  to  the  ramparts 
that  separate  us  from  oblivion ;  we  find  our- 
selves already  entangled  in  the  lab^^rinth  of 
the  unknown  crypt ;  our  eyes  are  already 
habituated  to  its  nocturnal  brightness.  .  .  . 
We  gravitate  toward  death.  We  feel  its 
breath  on  our  faces.  And  nothing  distracts 
178 


THE  SLAVE  OF  MINOS 

us  from  its  imperishable  presence.  Others 
live  their  life,  we  begin  to  live  our  death.   .   .   . 

"  P'rom  the  dark  house  of  life,  from  all  that 
evil  energy  that  weighs  so  heavily  on  the 
soul,  we  have  made  our  escape.  Swiftly  in- 
deed have  we  accomplished  the  cruel  task  of 
living.  After  this,  everything  would  have 
seemed  to  us  grey  and  flameless.  For  us 
another  world  is  necessary. 

"  The  soldiers  who  swarm,  sombre  and  vio- 
lent, along  the  lines  of  battle,  are  already 
dead.  .  .  .  But  the  war  gives  them  a  special 
vision.  They  are  already  capable  of  master- 
ing a  little  of  the  truth.  For  them,  here- 
after, death  is  there  where  you  imagine  life, 
and  life  where  you  imagine  death.  ,  .  .  They 
belong  already  to  the  earth,  they  have  re- 
turned to  it,  caught  up  again  in  its  flaming 
intimacy,  its  unfathomable  depth. 

"  The  rest,  those  who  feel  fear  for  their 
bodies,  are  the  comedians  of  oblivion.  Their 
eyes,  when  they  shine,  have  diffused  and  vit- 
179 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

reous  gleams.  Their  bodies,  which  they 
guard  with  such  avarice,  add  to  the  accumu- 
lation of  corpses  that  form  the  crust  of  the 
earth.  .  .  . 

"  But  it  is  an  alluring  light,  pure  and 
sweet,  that  you  see  in  the  fixed  eyeballs  of 
our  dead,  as  if  across  the  inert  veil  of  their 
retinas  you  perceived  the  inner  and  faraway 
flame  of  our  planet.  We  have  no  need  of 
your  pity,  nor  of  your  funeral  orisons.  The 
dead  and  the  living  of  our  struggling  armies 
are  already  linked  in  the  same  original  mys- 
tery, engulfed  in  the  same  clay.  .  .  ." 

A    sudden    warmth    spread    through    my 

chest.     Doctor   B slapped   my    hands. 

I  found  myself  in  the  snow,  at  the  foot  of  a 
chestnut  tree  that  was  rimed  with  white.  .  .  . 

"  What 's  the  matter,  my  boy?  "  the  doc- 
tor exclaimed.  *'  What  's  happened  to  you.'^ 
You  fell  in  a  heap  right  in  front  of  me.  Do 
3'ou  feel  a  little  better.?  " 

"  Yes." 

180 


THE  SLAVE  OF  MINOS 

"  Lean  on  me.     We  are  going  back." 
I  had  the  sensation  of  bursting  some  in- 
describable shroud.     A  boundless,  imploring 
love  flowed  from  mj  heart  toward  all  men 
and  things. 


How  can  one  explain  that  irresistible  sense 
of  brotherhood  we  feel  with  the  trees,  with 
the  undulating  fields,  with  all  of  earth's  cre- 
ations, however  much  or  little  is  their  por- 
tion of  life?  Have  we  already  an  obscure 
presentiment  that  we  are  to  lie  in  that  bitter 
soil,  confused  with  everything  it  has  cast  up 
from  itself,  that  we  are  indeed  to  serve  as  the 
nourishment,  the  substance  and  the  passion 
of  that  shadowy  and  voracious  despot? 


Out  of  the  tumult  of  the  forces  that  agi- 
tate us  I  have  taken  at  random  the  emotions 
and  the  dreams  that  have  tempted  me.     I 
181 


THE  FLAME  THAT  IS  FRANCE 

have  striven  to  recapture  and  imprison, 
within  the  lines  of  a  sustained  plan,  our  life 
as  it  is, —  captive,  covered  with  bizarre  pa- 
tinas, ruthless,  mournful,  beset  with  illusion, 
and  I  should  like  to  prolong  my  story 
through  the  monotonous  days  to  come.  .  .  . 
But  here  action,  simple,  brutal  action,  pre- 
Tails  over  meditation  and  sets  it  at  naught. 


182 


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